


If Not Now, When

by ineffablefool



Series: INNWverse [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: (not right away but they will because this is the Soft Zone(TM)), (one wedding anyway the canonical tag is plural), (will be plot-important plus i always work in those loving descriptors so you don't forget), Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Asexual Relationship, Author is ace, Author is fat, Author is still capable of making mistakes tho, Author is trans, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale probably does too but we're in Crowley's head for this one, Chubby Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Needs Therapy, Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Eventual Romance, F/F, First Kiss, Happy Ending, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Mutual Pining, No Sex, No Smut, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Oblivious Crowley (Good Omens), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Romance, Slow Burn, So Much Softness, Softness, Trans Crowley (Good Omens), Weddings, and some ableist language because multiple characters, belly kisses, fat positivity, gonna be a bunch of fat positivity as we go on so buckle up, it'll probably be medium angst at most, there's various swear words because Crowley, yeah it's officially here by now AND LOTS OF IT
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2020-11-26 21:11:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 88,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20936816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineffablefool/pseuds/ineffablefool
Summary: Anthony Crowley has learned by now that anything that makes him happy will be temporary at best.  His quietly desperate routine is challenged when he happens to strike up a conversation with a customer at work, and he starts realizing three things, in this order: 1. oh huh this Aziraphale guy is actually interesting; 2. he can't stop embarrassing himself by accidentally flirting with him; and 3.oh no this Aziraphale guy is actuallyextremely attractivewhat do I do.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Welcome (or welcome back! hello again I love you all!) to the Soft Zone(TM), where everything is always completely asexual and unapologetically fat-positive. This story marks a complete change of pace in another way, though -- after 18 basically-canon-compliant Good Omens one-shots, I'm writing a multi-chapter Good Omens human AU. If this pleases you, you can thank [hope_in_the_dark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hope_in_the_dark/profile) for inspiring me; if it doesn't, then blame me. 
> 
> Please join me for a story where human!Crowley is ace and trans, and about my age, which is currently 38; shares a flat in Soho with Anathema and her girlfriend Liz (whose last name is Pulsifer and whose first name used to be... well, something else); and plays D&D with some random secondary characters; as he gets to know a particular (curly-haired, round-bodied, tartan-wearing) bookseller who he meets while at work. Spoilers, they're going to fall in love and it's going to be incredibly Soft(TM). Warlock will show up later. It'll be fun.
> 
> For those who are used to how I write Crowley's thoughts on Aziraphale's corporation, please keep in mind that those thoughts come from a non-human Crowley who has pined for Aziraphale for 6023 years. Human Crowley brings different experiences, so doesn't always think in quite the same terms. I promise he starts out neutral and will only become more appreciative from there.
> 
> **General warnings for this story, please keep yourselves safe and skip this one if you need:** (chapter-specific warnings will also be added as appropriate)
> 
>   * There will probably be vague references to any or all of transphobia, acephobia, fatphobia, biphobia or homophobia at some point, but I will try very hard to keep them vague.
>   * There will definitely be gender dysphoria and internalized fatphobia, because chapters with those are already written.
>   * Crowley has a few Issues and is Not A Naturally Happy Person so there will be some Angst coming out of that.
>   * There's swearing and ableist language, as noted in tags.
>   * The word "fat" is going to be used throughout, but it will not be used negatively -- it will be a noun, a neutral descriptor, or a _loving_ descriptor once Crowley joins me on the Round Aziraphale Is Best Aziraphale train.
> 
> **There is so much lovely fanart for this story that I cannot put it all in these notes.** Please see [the last chapter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20936816/chapters/54519166) (only 28 of the chapters are story) for a master listing. (Also, I'm not sure anyone but me will care about this, but -- the length of this story before I added that list was 87893 words. The official AO3 count is going to become more and more inflated as more links get added to the art chapter.)
> 
> I'm writing for the TV characterization, but I've decided that my written Aziraphale's body is shaped like how Tumblr user speremint draws him (([1](https://speremint.tumblr.com/post/186342035100/i-did-this-instead-of-my-hw-ya-girl-is-gonna)) ([2 from her Reversed Omens AU](https://speremint.tumblr.com/post/186574829700/finally-finally-done-making-these-refs-my)) ([a similar example by dotstronaut](https://dotstronaut.tumblr.com/post/186740069618/no-really-i-dont-think-you-all-understand-how)) ([or the art I drew for chapter 1](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/188228379374/eh-this-is-fine-lil-bit-of-spot-color-and))), because I much prefer to imagine that as I work. Please also imagine that as you read!
> 
> Title is a common enough phrase, but I selected it specifically from "[For Me This Is Heaven](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=XUlpnMWaNio)" by Jimmy Eat World. I almost went with "Happiness, and a Muffin", but I just like this song (really the entire album) too much to pass it by. I will never not have an emo streak -- and I don't believe in guilty pleasures, so I don't apologize.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This chapter has art!](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/188228379374/eh-this-is-fine-lil-bit-of-spot-color-and) Every chapter will not have art, but this one does. You may wish to open in a new/background tab and not view until you've finished the chapter, but it's up to you. <3!

Crowley hated Soho.

He hated its historic storefronts and its cool little restaurants and its lively queer scene. He hated everything about it, everything that made it what it was, because it should’ve been the perfect place for him, only he was too miserable to enjoy it. Bloody Dowlings, deciding to go back to America and effectively put him out of a job. Bloody Anathema and Liz, convincing him to come out here with them, once he didn’t have anything tying him down anymore. And of course bloody stupid him for accepting. Now he was stuck sharing a nice little flat with his two best mates in a place where nobody but the three of them had ever known him by his birth name. It was awful.

Crowley was pretty sure he understood the _concept_ of happiness. It just never seemed to be anything he could keep hold of himself.

He was here anyway, though, and he might have been drifting through a series of crap jobs, but the savings from his past career as a nanny still had his finances looking okay. He might have been edging towards forty, but he still had his health. His looks, too, presumably, since he got flirted with enough that it was frankly irritating. Still lonely as hell, though. Who wanted to bother with someone who was just in it for a pretty face?

“You’ve got the highest standards of anyone I’ve ever met,” Anathema had scolded him at one point. “You could have practically anyone you wanted, and you’re still single. How does that even work?”

“Don’t want just _anyone_,” Crowley had grumbled. “Should be the _right_ person.”

Anathema had snorted. “Meet someone at work. Have a conversation with a customer. I don’t know. I’m just tired of watching you mope.”

Which, easy for her to say. She and the Lizard had been dating since back when Liz had been an entirely different reptile. Back when they’d all been barely more than kids, still figuring out what the hell they were. No queer YouTube community to turn to back then, and “asexual” had been for amoebas. Or maybe robots.

The conversation with Anathema had been a couple weeks ago. Since then, Crowley had tried talking more with the customers at his current job, barista-ing at the Clover Cafe, just in the hopes someone would spark his interest. Nope. All still irritating gits. Or they didn’t bother to talk to him, which was equally useless. Or they were just taken already.

Like, at the moment, there were three regulars in line. The first one was the pretty 30-something woman (Hallie) with a kind smile, fantastic natural hair, and an enbyfriend she loved very much — no go there. The second was the guy (Jeff) who, Crowley knew from experience, wouldn’t shut up about the latest diet he was on, which, boring, talking about all the stuff you’re _not_ letting yourself enjoy just because some article in Men’s Health said so.

The third was the weird guy (Aziraphale, and what kind of name was _that_) who ran a bookshop a block over. Probably around Crowley’s age. Barely talked to him at all, and dressed like a historical re-enactment geek with a thing for tartan. White-blond hair curling around his head like a halo, which Crowley would’ve assumed was bleached on anyone even slightly less out of step with the idea of fashion. Little bit short. Lot bit fat. Not that Crowley was judging. Honestly, if he ever found himself at a point in his life where he thought his opinion on other people’s bodies mattered, then he hoped someone would kick him square in the face. There was already enough of that in the world from people like the Men’s Health git.

Bookshop guy was one of the quiet polite ones who Crowley didn’t mind because he didn’t hang around being an irritant. He would buy his coffee (cream, three sugars), and his food (usually two scones, but it varied), and then he’d leave. Human interaction on easy mode.

Thing was, bookshop guy’d already been in that morning. It’d only been about five minutes ago, in fact. He was back in line again, coffee still in one hand, although his food (one of those giant blueberry muffins the owner usually baked on Thursdays) was gone.

“Welcome back,” Crowley said as bookshop guy stepped up to the counter again. “Finished the muffin already?”

Bookshop guy gave Crowley a sharp look, like maybe he got a lot of comments like that. Actually, he probably did, and not just innocent gaffes from idiots like Crowley. Bloody Men’s Health types. “And if I have?”

Crowley shrugged. “Can’t sell you another, ‘cause that was the last one. Couple of scones instead?”

It was a good answer, apparently, because the little bit of fire in bookshop guy’s face flashed over into a bright smile. “That would be splendid. Thank you.”

Crowley glanced over at Aziraphale (might as well think of him by his name if they were going to be having a conversation) as he started bagging up. “What did happen? Drop it? Owner’ll want me to clean it up if it’s on the pavement out front, so it doesn’t rot there.”

Aziraphale’s round cheeks went faintly pink. “I gave it away.”

“Um.” When he’d first started transitioning, Crowley had passed better with his eyes hidden, so he’d just started wearing sunglasses constantly while in public and never really stopped. So Aziraphale maybe couldn’t tell that he was staring at him from behind the dark lenses. He was, though. “You what?”

“There’s a lovely young lady who visits my shop sometimes when she needs a quiet place to study for her classes. I ran into her on my way back, and... well, I could positively _hear_ her stomach growl. Seems she never got a chance to eat breakfast. So I gave her mine.”

“Huh.” A third scone found its way into the bag. No reason, really. Maybe Crowley felt like encouraging generosity. “Nice of you.”

The pink in those cheeks was a lot less faint now. “I try to be kind, is all. Someone has to be.”

“Yeah,” Crowley agreed, and rang him up for two scones.

Aziraphale thanked him and left again. He must’ve made it back to his shop without running into any more hungry urchins, because he didn’t come back a third time.

* * *

Crowley made the mistake of mentioning the occurrence at dinner that night. Anathema started grinning around a mouthful of lasagna and didn’t seem interested in stopping. Liz got all goony and started asking questions about Aziraphale, as if Crowley knew more than three things about him.

“Look, he’s some bloke who sells books and eats scones. If you’re gonna try to matchmake off that, then good luck.”

Liz exchanged a look with Anathema. “Is he cute? He’s probably cute.”

“Not my type,” Crowley grunted. He hadn’t dated a man in a while, but back when he did, they were mostly like him — skinny black-wearing types with extremely cool attitudes. He couldn’t even imagine what bookshop guy would look like in black. It’d be weird with those angel-halo curls of his.

“Anyway. It was sposed to be a happy story, is all. Random act of kindness.”

“Sure, sure,” Anathema relented. Crowley got just enough time to put one bite into his mouth, and then she smiled innocently. “So. Vanessa been in this week?”

* * *

Friday and Saturday were normal enough days, with a few customers coming in who Crowley was willing to talk to, but not many, and not bookshop guy. Sunday afternoon it started pouring rain. Business pretty much died off after that, so Crowley didn’t even wait until closing to start cleaning up. That put him just heading out the back door, both hands loaded down with bin bags, when the front door jingled.

“Be there in a sec,” he called without looking. “Sit down if you like meanwhile.”

“Oh,” said a voice which he recognized almost immediately. Cultured, fussy. Bookshop guy. “Would you like any help?”

“Not unless you’ve got an umbrella, no. No need for anyone but me to get soaked out here.”

There was a musical little _hmm_ noise, and when bookshop guy’s — Aziraphale’s — voice sounded again, it was right behind him. “As a matter of fact, I do. It seems that you have your hands rather full, though.”

Crowley looked back over his shoulder, noting both the identity of his visitor (curly blond hair, ridiculously anachronistic waistcoat, bow tie for some unfathomable reason — yep, confirmed, that was Mr Aziraphale T Bookshop Guy), as well as the large white umbrella which that visitor wielded. “Yeah, well. Maybe I can... um.”

“If I may?”

Crowley shrugged. Sure. Whatever would get the rubbish out without him also taking an impromptu shower.

Aziraphale stepped up next to him in the doorway, opening the umbrella out into the back alley. “Ah. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to move back a bit... not enough room for me to get by.” Then, when Crowley shuffled back inside: “Here we go, then. Those bins over there?”

“Yeah.”

Aziraphale walked outside beneath the umbrella, holding it so it could shelter Crowley as he followed. It was ten or twelve steps to the bins. In this rain, Crowley should’ve been drenched in the time it took him to get over there, sling everything in, and run back to the doorway. But Aziraphale kept the umbrella angled perfectly to shield him from the deluge. He didn’t even have to rush.

“This is way better than going it alone. Thanks, mate.”

“Of course. My pleasure, really.”

They were standing close enough beneath the umbrella that neither really needed to raise his voice over the downpour. Close enough that once Crowley was done filling the bins, he turned around a little too quickly and bumped up against Aziraphale’s protruding stomach as he went by.

They got straightened out easily enough, nobody landing on their arse or anything like that. Aziraphale walked him back in, shook the umbrella off toward the back step as Crowley washed up.

“Sorry,” Crowley said when it happened, and “Think nothing of it,” Aziraphale replied.

“Close up, will you?,” Crowley said as he was soaping his hands, and Aziraphale did so with another of those melodic little hums. Crowley maybe spent a little extra time at the sink, thinking about that bump and wondering _why_ he was thinking about it. But soon enough he was thoroughly washed and dried.

“Great,” Crowley said. He was back on his side of the counter, Aziraphale was on the other, and everything was normal again. “What can I get you? Warning, it’ll probably be on the house.”

Aziraphale’s eyes went skittery at that, like it was hard to actually look at Crowley. “Yes, well. Perhaps you’d better not. The owner might not appreciate your making it a habit.”

It took Crowley a second. “Right. Right, the, uh, scone on Thursday. Well. You know. I didn’t want you still hungry after helping out that nice young lady.”

A little smile flitted over Aziraphale’s face. “Oh. Thank you.”

“Yeah.” And because he refused to let there be any awkward pauses here — how could there be, there was nothing to be awkward about — he went ahead with the script. “So what’ll it be?”

Aziraphale ordered his usual coffee, cream and three sugars, the same decadence which sounded terrible to Crowley but which Aziraphale presumably enjoyed. He also asked for the last scone and one of the remaining Danishes. Crowley tried to throw in the other Danish without him noticing.

“Ah — Crowley, my dear fellow, I —”

Holy hell, but his name coming out of Aziraphale’s mouth felt strange. It was right there on his nametag, and plenty of other customers had used it, but he and Aziraphale had never been on an actual _name_ basis in all the months Crowley’d been working there. He wasn’t even sure how he’d managed to switch from thinking of him as bookshop guy so quickly.

“It’ll just get thrown away anyway,” he said, instead of anything that was actually going through his head. “I’m closing up in like twenty minutes. Nobody’s gonna come in before that.”

Aziraphale tilted his head. “Have the place to yourself, then?”

“Yeah, we do.”

We? Whatever. It’d been a long, boring day. His brain obviously wasn’t firing correctly. “That’ll be, uh, six pounds three.”

Aziraphale paid, and wished him a pleasant evening without quite meeting his eyes. Well, of course, now that Crowley’d gone and made everything weird. “We”. Sure.

The huge white umbrella fwooped into place outside the front door, and Aziraphale and his angelic curls disappeared into the gloom.

Nobody else came in, just as predicted, which gave Crowley twenty minutes to think about nothing. Unfortunately, his brain was actually more interested in thinking about _something_, and the something was what happened outside.

The side of his hand, his forearm, had bumped against Aziraphale’s wide belly, just for a second. Barely long enough for it to even register. And it wasn’t like he’d had any expectations of what it would feel like, seeing as he hadn’t expected to touch Aziraphale at all. 

Come to think of it, he wasn’t sure he’d ever actually touched a fat person’s body before. What little of his family he’d ever met was as skinny as he was, and he’d never dated anyone who was more than average-sized. Never had any fat friends, either. Now he was kind of questioning how he’d managed that all these years. It’d be like never befriending a single queer person, despite the fact that they obviously existed. After a certain point, it stopped feeling like coincidence and started feeling like maybe something deeper was going on. He didn’t like the implications. Didn’t want to think about them just yet.

So. No expectations for the experience, but he was still mildly surprised at how Aziraphale’s body had actually felt. Soft, of course. His hand had actually sunk in, just a tiny bit, before he’d moved it away. But there’d been a kind of firmness to it, too — it wasn’t like it was just amorphous jelly all the way down. 

He was trying very hard not to compare it to anything, because what the hell kind of exceedingly creepy person would compare a stranger’s belly to a really good memory foam pillow, but damned if that wasn’t what kept coming to mind. Fine. Whatever. He’d be creepy about it. And maybe he’d even think about how warm that stranger’s belly had been, while he was at it. Or about how during the entire excursion, he’d been able to smell Aziraphale’s cologne. Sort of papery and spicy and floral.

Crowley was suddenly very, very annoyed at Aziraphale for having given away his damned muffin. That had apparently made him interesting. Crowley had already had plenty of experience in how things ended up once he got interested in anything, in anyone, whatever form that interest took: bad. They would end up bad. He would end up alone, sooner or later, pointlessly drifting through life. And anything beyond the basic concept of happiness would, once again, elude him.

Between the interest and the end would only be wasted time.

He glared at the ceiling. “Fuck it. Time to find a new job.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley switches jobs, so he will probably definitely never see Aziraphale again. A few weeks later he goes out for dinner with his flatmates. Oh, wait, who's that just walking into the restaurant...?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter-specific warning notes:** the word "fat" is used, but never, ever negatively, because this is the Soft Zone(TM).

Crowley didn’t actually find a new job for almost a month. He might’ve been resigned to crap, but at the very least he could hold out for decent-paying crap. Eventually he landed a gig as a waiter for some trendy new fusion cuisine place. It was self-consciously ultra-cool, and disgustingly pretentious, but the pay was good.

He didn’t tell anyone at the Clover Cafe, meanwhile, that he was planning to leave. Certainly not Aziraphale, who stopped by nineteen times in those twenty-six days. Not that Crowley was keeping track or anything. It was just... well. Aziraphale was the most tolerable customer in the joint. No telling what the clientele would be like at Red Red. Probably wouldn’t include Aziraphale, though; by now, Crowley knew the man well enough to guess that it would not be his scene.

Nineteen times, Aziraphale came into the Clover, mostly in the dead periods, mid-morning or right before close. He ordered his coffee and his food and then left. He never stayed once the transaction was complete. When the place was busy, they didn’t even talk first, other than the standard script. When it was just the two of them...

“Honest opinion. What d’you think of this thing?”

Crowley was pointing to the new artwork which the owner had put up on one wall. It was some kind of abstract print, all weird screaming colors slashed through with black, and Crowley hated it. The owner claimed it was “energizing”, though. Crowley wanted a second opinion.

“Ah. Hmm.” Aziraphale walked over to it, hands behind his back like he was at a bloody museum. One of his thumbs drew circles on the other palm as he considered. “It’s... rather exhausting, quite frankly. I think it wants to challenge me in some way, but even it isn’t quite sure what way that would be. So it’s just... visually shouting everywhere.” He turned back to Crowley. “And you must have to look at it all day from over there. Oh dear. Terribly sorry about that.”

Crowley grinned. Vindication. “Eh, there’s better things to look at now and then.”

He meant the customers, the customers in _general_, the ebb and flow of humanity in all its various forms, giving him visual stimulation that wasn’t the same four walls all day. But right now the only customer was Aziraphale. The only “better thing” to look at was the fat little bookseller turning ever so slightly pink beneath his halo.

Crowley definitely did not intend to flirt with him. He hated being flirted with, so why would he do it to someone else? And there was no way he was taking even one step down the road that might lead on from there. None. It never ended well, it never would, and he was sick of finding new people to eventually leave him.

It didn’t matter that Aziraphale was so easy to talk to, or that Crowley had started looking forward to seeing his smile, the one that really lit up his eyes when he got excited about something. No. Crowley was going to stop trying to figure out what color those eyes were, because they seemed different practically every time he looked. He was going to stop trying to remember exactly what it felt like to touch Aziraphale, what all Aziraphale’s yielding softness felt like against his arm, that evening under the umbrella. None of this. Crowley was having none of this.

“I hate it,” he said. “The painting. It’s awful. Glad you agree.”

Aziraphale nodded vigorously. “Yes. Rather terrible. It might be better if it could at least express what it _wants_.”

“Yeah,” Crowley grunted. “So. Coffee and...?”

He added an extra pastry in with Aziraphale’s order. Neither of them even bothered to point it out anymore.

Two days after that, he went to work at the very pretentious restaurant which Aziraphale would almost certainly never visit.

According to Anathema, he moped for the next week. Except he obviously wasn’t moping.

* * *

It was Liz’s birthday, not her original one but the day she became Liz officially instead of just in all the ways that really mattered, and the three of them were celebrating. Crowley had been at Red Red for several weeks, and wasn’t hating it as much as he thought he would. And it’d been days since the last time the sight of a white-blond head in a crowd had set his heart thumping. There were lots of things to celebrate.

Liz didn’t like sushi, but she would probably shank a man for the katsudon at Muramoto’s, so that was where they’d ended up. Crowley and Anathema were splitting the chef’s selection of rolls, with Crowley taking all the spicy ones. It was a sacrifice his taste buds were happy to make.

Anathema had just landed a noisy kiss on Liz’s cheek, both of them giggling and Crowley trying not to snort miso soup through his nose, when a round figure in waistcoat and bow tie entered from outside.

“Crowley? Oi, you in there?”

“I — yeah. Yeah. Sorry, An.”

He’d dropped his spoon. There was a little bit of mess, easily cleaned up with his napkin. He kept watching over the others’ shoulders as Aziraphale was greeted by the hostess, smiling and carrying on a conversation for a few moments. She laughed at something he said. None of it was audible.

Aziraphale was then seated at the counter. The hostess didn’t even give him a menu, just laughed one last time and left him to it. At which point the bloody _chef_ came over and started talking to him.

Great. Aziraphale was a regular at Muramoto’s.

Liz was looking at Crowley in confusion, but Anathema appeared to be putting things together. She squinted at him, then turned around, trying to follow his gaze. Crowley realized he should stop looking, come up with a neutral conversational topic extremely quickly, but by then it was too late. Anathema grinned with delight.

“Is that him? That’s your Aziraphale?”

“He’s not _my_ Aziraphale,” Crowley snapped, which was the wrong answer, because now Anathema’s eyes were practically sparkling. Liz turned around too.

“Oh, he’s really _not_ your usual type, is he? He’s like a... a big teddy bear.”

“He is _not_ like a —” Crowley took off his sunglasses just long enough to rub at his eyes. “Yes, okay, that is one of the customers from my last job. It’s very exciting for us to all get this brush with celebrity. Now can we please bloody eat?!”

He raised his voice without meaning to.

Aziraphale glanced over.

Their eyes locked.

Crowley felt something tilt in his stomach. No. No, okay, this was not fucking happening...

He realized that Anathema and Liz were both waving Aziraphale over, and the something in his stomach plummeted. “What are you _doing_,” he hissed.

“We’ve got an empty chair, and your Aziraphale is all alone over there. Don’t you think he might like some company?”

“He’s _not my_ —” The empty chair in question was next to Crowley. He looked at it, and he pictured Aziraphale sitting a foot to his right, twelve little inches, actually staying instead of taking his order and leaving...

Aziraphale tilted his head, eyes seeming to shuttle between the women and Crowley. Then he said something to the chef before rising from his stool.

Then he was standing by their table, goddamn gold curls glowing in the dim light.

“You’re Crowley’s friend!” Liz announced, a statement of fact that she was just confirming for form’s sake. “Please join us? It’s my birthday!”

“That’s very kind of you,” Aziraphale said, but there was hesitation in his soft voice. “I’m sure it wouldn’t be fair of me to interrupt such an occasion, though.”

His eyes flicked towards Crowley again. Crowley thought about what kind of a person would just up and change jobs without even mentioning it to their... their best customer. And what kind of person would give up an opportunity to set things right, if one presented itself.

This wasn’t a crush talking. He did not have a crush on Aziraphale.

“Siddown,” he said, pulling out the chair next to him. “Liz’ll just get pouty if you don’t.”

Aziraphale maybe saw something in Crowley’s face that he liked, or maybe he came to the decision on his own. He smiled — not one of the really bright ones, but still genuine — and took the chair. Sitting, now, maybe eight inches to Crowley’s right. He took up more space than Crowley had considered in his earlier calculations.

It was fine. Eight inches might as well be on the moon. He thought he noticed just a hint of Aziraphale’s cologne again, but it was fine.

He pointed around the table. “Liz. Anathema. Very good friends of mine for some reason which probably involves me having bad taste.” Anathema smiled prettily as she gave him a very subtle rude gesture. “Aziraphale. Bloke I told you about from the Clover Cafe.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened just a bit. “Ah. I wasn’t aware I was household conversation.”

Liz was one of those people who had had a lot of early experience with being an awkward mess, but then got over it, mostly, and could now generally pass for a functioning adult. Left on his own, Crowley would probably have stammered out nonsense syllables for the next minute straight in his mortification over admitting that he’d talked to others about Aziraphale. But Liz just beamed. “Crowley has lots of stories about his work. He’s a focus for chaos, I think.”

“Nyeah.” Crowley cleared his throat. “Like the couple yesterday. Posh bastards thought they were at the Ritz or something. Kept insisting I bring ‘em some fancy wine I’ve never even heard of. Château Moot Something.”

“Château Mouton-Rothschild?”

Crowley gaped at Aziraphale. “The hell’d you know that?”

“I... might be in the habit of dining at the Ritz, myself.”

It should have annoyed Crowley to be sitting with the sort of posh bastard who’d eat at the Ritz, or who’d know what a Château Moot Whatever was. But Aziraphale wasn’t that sort, not really. That sort didn’t help their barista empty rubbish bins in the rain.

So instead of being annoyed, he laughed, sprawling back comfortably in his chair. “Maybe I’ll call you next time I have to deal with something like that. You probably speak their language, yeah? You could translate for me.”

“I suppose I could,” Aziraphale said. He looked at Crowley for a half-second, then down at the table. Back at Crowley again. Over to Liz. “So, it’s your birthday, is it? Has it been a good one?”

Crowley could swear his mouth was trying to kill him. He couldn’t very well call Aziraphale without his number, now could he? And they’d never traded numbers. Of course they hadn’t. No wonder there was a familiar pink tint on Aziraphale’s cheeks. Crowley was making an idiot of himself, _again_. Except now he was embarrassing the poor guy in front of company, not just in the privacy of the Clover.

Fuck. Okay. At least once Aziraphale’s food came out, they’d have a nice neutral discussion topic for Crowley to jump back into. Although it sounded like the current topic had changed to...

“Absolutely.” Anathema leaned across the table, tapping one finger for emphasis. “Ever since he was a kid, terrified of clowns. Way more than normal. What’s really fun is if you —”

“Oi!”

“Oh, no, I’m quite enjoying hearing about this.” Aziraphale was _smirking_, the bastard. “Now, my dear lady, you were saying...?”

Crowley groaned. “Come on! You can’t just pump my childhood friends for secrets! ‘S unfair!”

“Could trade them,” Liz offered. “We tell him one of yours, he has to tell you one of his. That’s fair, right?”

“N — no! It bloody well isn’t!”

Aziraphale coughed. “Oh dear. By that logic, I owe Crowley two secrets already.”

“Oop. No more from me till you pay up.” Anathema sipped daintily at her drink. “And I do have some excellent ones to share, for the record.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. He started to say that this was ridiculous, that he wasn’t playing this stupid game, but then he realized Aziraphale was looking at him. There was a little line between his eyebrows, and a firm set to his mouth that Crowley hadn’t seen before.

“All right,” Aziraphale said. “It is only fair.”

There was a moment, and then Aziraphale began shifting toward Crowley. He placed one hand on the table, the other on his own knee, and he leaned closer, closer. The umbrella had been nothing compared to this. The dry floral scent of his cologne was all around, now.

When Aziraphale spoke again, it was directly into Crowley’s ear. His voice was a murmur, low and musical, and behind his sunglasses, Crowley’s eyes shut without him asking them to.

“Secret number one, I suppose.” Aziraphale paused. “I —”

There was a rattle of porcelain on the table. Crowley opened his eyes again, and Aziraphale’s face was right there, almost close enough to — well. It was close. He’d pulled away slightly, turned his head so that now Crowley saw him in profile. Crowley’s hidden eyes crawled over that profile, the smooth forehead and round chin and turned-up nose and oh, Aziraphale’s lips...

Aziraphale straightened up and said something to the chef, who’d just brought him his meal. He said it in flawless-sounding Japanese. Somehow that wasn’t the most surprising thing Crowley had just learned about Aziraphale, that he spoke Japanese. No, the real surprise was that Aziraphale’s lips were so delicate, so softly pink, and Crowley had never even realized it until just now. Aziraphale was turned away from him now, so Crowley couldn’t see those lips shape the words as he continued to talk with the chef, nodding, chuckling in response to something. That was probably for the best.

This was not a crush. He did not have a crush on Aziraphale and his soft lips and his soft eyes and his soft voice whispering secrets in the night. Absolutely fucking not.

The other three were talking again, the chef gone back to his post. Crowley would get control of himself, dammit. He would shove all those weird gooey feelings off the cliff of Nope Nuh-Uh No Way, where they belonged, and he would converse like a normal person.

“...simply divine,” Aziraphale was saying. “The texture of the eel is, I think, much more interesting on the palate.”

Anathema shook her head. “I’ll stick to the less ‘interesting’ stuff.”

“What, not feeling adventurous tonight?” Crowley wriggled his fingers. “Eel, Anathema. Eeeel.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” she replied.

Crowley shrugged. “More for you, I spose,” he said to Aziraphale. “Cheers.”

He snagged another piece off the plate he and Anathema had been sharing, dunking it in soy sauce and chewing on it happily. He didn’t know what they put in the oshinko rolls here, but he could eat them every day given the chance. Nice and tangy.

Aziraphale’s approach to his own plate was very different. He’d gotten a roll of something complicated-looking and some assorted nigiri. He just looked at it all for a moment, smiling, almost like he was basking in its presence before he got started. Which, Crowley guessed he could understand that kind of anticipation. The oshinko and all.

Crowley stole a piece of tempura roll from Anathema’s side of the plate and shoved it in his mouth before she could do anything about it, grinning when she called him something not fit for polite conversation. She stole some of his spicy tuna even though she hated Sriracha. It was a thing they did. Tradition. They seldom bothered to take meals seriously.

Just as this was happening, Aziraphale finally, finally lifted a piece of nigiri in his chopsticks. The action was slow, almost reverent, and it was right about as the food was passing Aziraphale’s lips that Crowley realized at least two things.

The first was that he’d never actually seen Aziraphale eat before.

The second was that Aziraphale apparently took meals _extremely_ seriously.

He was just learning all kinds of things tonight, wasn’t he.

Like, now: Crowley was learning the sight of Aziraphale taking that first bite, his eyes closing, his head tilting back just a little. An expression of utter joy transformed his face into something glowing and holy and beautiful.

Crowley was learning the sound of it. Learning the little hum that spiraled up from Aziraphale’s throat, ending in a sigh that made something in Crowley’s chest ache.

He was learning the feel, how it _felt_ to watch Aziraphale chew delicately, slowly, as if he was rolling the taste around in his mouth to savor as much as possible. 

Crowley’s heart was a pulpy mess, the aching thing in his chest expanding to smash it against unyielding ribs. His lungs were empty and useless. His stomach had gone into giddy freefall. Even his spleen was threatening to register several complaints.

Aziraphale looked so happy to be eating a single goddamn piece of sushi that it made Crowley want to surround him with the stuff, just so he’d never have to be without it again.

Oh no. Oh, no no no. This wasn’t a crush at all. This was a _disaster_.

Liz and Anathema talked about something on their side of the table, and Aziraphale ate his sushi. Crowley watched Aziraphale. His own dinner was forgotten, now. Couldn’t matter less.

When Aziraphale finished at last, dabbing his lips with a napkin, Crowley drew in what felt like the first breath of his entire life.

“How was it?”

His voice was hoarse, almost broken, and it was a stupid question, because obviously it was a transcendental experience which he was unbearably privileged to have witnessed. But Aziraphale only beamed at him.

“Absolutely scrumptious.”

Scrumptious. Bloody hell, Aziraphale was non-ironically using the word “scrumptious”. This was not something that Crowley should have to deal with. None of this was anything that Crowley should have to deal with. He needed to run away and hide under a rock and never, ever look at Aziraphale’s color-changing eyes ever again.

Gray, he decided. In this light they were a warm and gentle gray.

By some miracle, he got through the rest of the night without making an idiot of himself again. Everyone said their goodbyes, Anathema promised Aziraphale lots more gossip about Crowley at a future date, and they went their separate ways.

Crowley considered it a victory that he did _not_ get Aziraphale’s number.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Things I dislike, #62,197: fat people, who are sentient autonomous human beings, getting referred to as inanimate objects like "teddy bears". Liz. Liz please don't.)
> 
> I hope everyone is enjoying Crowley's slow destruction so far. <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley has a conversation with Warlock, has a bad few days, and very carefully does not go anywhere near Aziraphale. Because why would he want to do that? Ridiculous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter-specific warning notes:** Description of gender dysphoria. References to some of the crappy stuff cis people might say when they learn someone is trans. ilu my trans and/or enby fam and you're all amazing.

“And my new tutor is the worst. Doesn’t tell jokes or let me go early or anything.” Warlock did something that jostled the camera. “And he smells like cigarettes.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “You know, if you hadn’t gotten suspended, you wouldn’t need a tutor.”

“You said you were proud of me before!”

“Course I’m proud. Always question authority.” He sat up on the bed, shifting his phone around so Warlock would still be able to see him. “Just, there’s consequences if you do it in the room while the former senator is giving a guest lecture.”

Warlock sighed. “I miss you, nanny Anthony.”

“Aw, kid.” Crowley’s throat tightened a little. “You were about to outgrow me, anyway. I mean, high school next year, right? Don’t need the weird old guy who changed your diapers hanging around.”

“Nuh uh. My gaming friends would’ve loved to meet you. I tell them about you all the time, and they think you’re cool.”

Crowley snorted. “I never should’ve taught you to play D&D. You’re gonna turn into a complete nerd.”

“I wanna learn about astronomy, too, maybe.” The Skype connection wasn’t great, but Crowley could still hear the little wobble in Warlock’s voice. “Like you said you used to want to.”

Dammit. At this rate, Crowley was going to need to “accidentally” drop the phone to give himself a chance to wipe his eyes. “Definite nerd territory, kiddo. Sides, you need a lot of math for that.”

“My tutor says I’m really good at math,” Warlock replied, less wobbly now and more smug. “Says my parents should have me put in calculus next year.”

“Really? That’s great! They gonna do it?”

“I dunno.” There was another sigh, passed through the Internet from one side of the Atlantic to the other, and Warlock let his phone fall so he was halfway off-camera. “I don’t even think Dad knows about it yet. Mom does, but every time I say anything it’s like...”

“Yeah?”

“Like she doesn’t have time to care.”

“Oh, kid. Warlock. I promise you she cares, okay? Mums, proper mums, always care. It’s just...”

Just sometimes they didn’t care enough. Cared about other things more. Decided to stop caring because it was convenient.

He was pretty sure that wasn’t Mrs Dowling, though. She’d never win any awards, but he wouldn’t have kept working for someone if they were so much like his... so much like _that_.

“Just, they don’t always know how to show it. ‘S not a class you can take to be a parent.”

“There should be,” Warlock muttered.

Crowley pretended to scratch under one eye. “C’mon. What’ve I taught you about oppressive power structures and their hold over marginalized people?”

“Yeah. I know.” There was a brief pause, during which one of Warlock’s eyes considered him. “I wish my parents’d been more like you. Bet I’d be in calculus already.”

Crowley choked out a watery little laugh. “All the things you could wish for, and that’s what you pick. Bloody calculus.” God, what he wouldn’t give to be able to hug the kid right now. Ruffle his hair and be answered with an indignant eye-roll. Just fucking care about him, like a kid deserved, like all kids deserved. “Your parents aren’t the best, but they love you. I wouldn’t lie to you. Specially not about that.”

Warlock nodded. “Okay. I still miss you, though.”

“Miss you too, kiddo.” Now the other eye definitely itched. “Hey. Remember I used to take you shopping with me? I’d let you push the trolley, you’d sneak things in when you thought I wasn’t looking?”

“You _made_ me push the trolley,” Warlock grumbled.

“No, no, it was a real honor. Couldn’t let you until I was sure you were ready. Huge responsibility, pushing the trolley.”

“You’re full of shit, nanny.”

Crowley grinned toothily. “And you’re a foul-mouthed little punk. Wonder what bad influence you learned that from?”

Warlock’s laughter spilled out of his phone, and he soaked it in, letting it warm bits of him that had been cold for a while. Maybe since the Dowlings had gone back home. He’d been Warlock’s nanny before he even was Warlock, back when he was just little baby Tad. Had taught him how to read and how to swear and how to get away with almost anything as long as it wasn’t malicious. He’d given him his nickname, for fuck’s sake, and who even called him Tad anymore besides his teachers? Even Tad Senior had caved eventually.

Warlock had been curled up inside Crowley’s chest since about his second day on the job, and when the job had ended there’d been a new Warlock-shaped hole in his heart for him to deal with. Right next to all the other holes already punched through that bleeding mess. But it hadn’t been the kid’s fault. Not really anyone’s. Just how things went for Crowley.

“I remember how you always drove when we went to town. Dunno how you didn’t crash Dad’s car. You went _fast_.” The admiration in Warlock’s voice made Crowley smile. “And I liked the Bentley, too. I miss riding in it.”

A little wriggle of concern worked its way through Crowley’s gut. “Your dad still hasn’t sold her, has he?”

Warlock shrugged. “I think all the cars are still in storage back over there. He keeps complaining that it’s more expensive to keep ‘em than to just find someone to take ‘em.”

“Well, if it comes up again, maybe tell him he might have a buyer, okay?” Crowley did the numbers in his head, thinking about what he’d put away so far. What he might be able to add in the near future, if he kept on at his current job. “Not... not right away, exactly. But I could at least do a pretty good down payment. If it came to it.”

“Would you give me a ride after you bought it?”

“What, and endanger your life?” Crowley raised both eyebrows. “Warlock. I am a _responsible adult_.”

Warlock made an extremely rude noise which came across the Skype connection just fine.

* * *

The couple of days after talking to Warlock were hard ones. They almost always were. There were a lot of memories tied up in his time with the Dowlings, and before. Good ones he missed, of course, lots of those; but ones he didn’t want to think about anymore, either. Too bad he couldn’t just tear them out of his own head. Couldn’t just have them taken from him on the operating table, like certain other things.

He woke up shouting one night, hand splayed trembling against his own chest, dreaming brain still convinced that they were back. It took a couple minutes to come down from that. Running both hands over the thin material of his t-shirt, feeling the shape of himself beneath. Just skin and scrawny muscle and bones. Of course. Fuck, he’d thought he’d gotten past that particular nightmare by now.

“You’re okay, mate,” he said to himself. “That part’s done forever, thank fucking God.” Just talking to himself in the dark of his room. Listening to the sound of his own voice.

In the morning, An and the Lizard came stumbling out of their room all sleepy and giggling and disgustingly cheerful, not stopping even after Crowley gave them several varieties of death glare.

“Drink your coffee already,” Anathema said.

“Don’t wanna. Wanna be annoyed with you instead.”

She rolled her eyes, whispered something to Liz, and the two of them laughed.

He did start feeling a little more human after the first cup, though, and when Liz tapped him on the arm as she headed out, he didn’t even glower at her.

“You’re wearing those jeans again,” she said. Anathema was in the bathroom brushing her teeth, but Liz’s voice was still quiet, something just for the two of them. “You okay?”

Crowley grunted. “Bad dream.” He brushed imaginary lint off his most hip-disguising jeans. “Talked with Warlock the other day. And, I mean, he probably doesn’t even remember me from before I started mostly passing, he would’ve been like four, but...”

“But you remember.”

“Yeah.”

Liz glanced toward the sound of water running, then looked back at him. “Should I ask An to lay off a bit?”

“Nah. I’m leaving soon anyway. Spend my day off somewhere where people’re less bloody perceptive.”

There was a smirk in his voice, though, and Liz grinned, seeming to pick up on it. “Don’t worry, Anathema won’t notice. She doesn’t have our... special insight.”

Crowley shrugged. “Sure. Thanks, Liz.”

“You’re welcome.” She turned on her phone, muttered something as it rebooted itself again, and then waved to him on her way out the door.

* * *

He wandered the streets of Soho for a bit, not really going anywhere. Eventually he realized he wasn’t far from the Clover Cafe, so he decided to stop in for a few. Have some coffee, maybe get something to eat. See what life was like on the other side of the counter.

The barista on duty today was a pleasant-looking woman in a headscarf. He wondered how long she’d been working there, how often she’d made coffee for —

Nope. No, he didn’t wonder that at all.

“Large black coffee for here, please.” He eyed the pastries. Only two of the scones left. “And a piece of the marble... bread... thing.”

“Coffee cake,” she supplied. “Can I get you anything else?”

“What’s the wifi password this week?”

He really didn’t have anywhere to go, so there was no reason to not stay here for a while. Take a seat that happened to have a good view of the counter, of the front door. He could see the back door too. It’d lead out to the alley, to the bins, the ones where you’d get soaked if you had to get to them in the rain, unless you had someone with an umbrella, shielding you, guiding your way...

Crowley glared at his bread thing. That didn’t make him feel better, so he ate it. That did make him feel better, a little.

He nursed his coffee and trolled YouTube comments for a few hours, until the lunch rush started and the other tables filled in. Then he cleaned up after himself and wandered back out into the thin sunshine. Still just wandering, without any particular goal in mind.

He’d crossed the street, turned the corner, and could actually see the sign down the block when he realized what he was doing.

Gold letters on burgundy. “A.Z. FELL AND Co.” Fuck.

He’d known where Aziraphale worked for ages, of course. He’d half-overheard a conversation in line, months and months ago. One anonymous customer had turned to another anonymous customer and said something like “oh, don’t you own that bookshop the next block over?” Second anonymous customer had said something like “A. Z. Fell, yes, that’s my shop.” Bam. Anonymous customer had become bookshop guy. And that was all he’d been until Crowley had gone and asked him about his goddamned muffin.

He’d never been into the shop. Not before making... making _acquaintances_ with Aziraphale, because reading books wasn’t really his thing. Definitely not after. Why would he bother? There wasn’t any reason to be interested in visiting. Not like he stopped by the workplaces of all his regulars. Be bloody weird.

Was that Aziraphale’s last name? Aziraphale Fell? He didn’t actually know. What a name to saddle a kid with, though.

His feet started moving again while he was distracted. _No_. He wasn’t doing this. Let his feet drag him in there so his mouth could try to kill him again with some accidentally-flirtatious garbage? Absolutely not.

Crowley very deliberately turned around and walked back the way he’d come. He did not want to visit Aziraphale. He did not want to _talk_ to Aziraphale, or listen to his soft careful voice, or watch him light up in an eye-crinkling smile. He wanted to go home, back to the empty flat, silent without Anathema’s sarcasm or Liz’s laughter or — or anyone else’s presence. Watch telly and maybe take a nap. That was all. A nice quiet afternoon alone.

The television wouldn’t get disgusted when he finally admitted that he was trans. Or worse, wouldn’t get curious. All _can I see your old photos_ and _what’s your **real** name then_ and _so have you had The Surgery yet?_ Not that Aziraphale even needed to ever know; it wasn’t like Crowley told everyone. Just people he thought it’d be relevant to. And it’d hardly be relevant here. Unless he thought that someday Aziraphale might want... that they’d...

Although then he’d also have to explain the whole ace thing.

Never mind. Home. Television. Loads better than people, television. Loads safer.

He jammed his fingers into his pockets and slouched away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is low on the Crowley's Slow Destruction, but I am planning to post chapter 4 on Thursday, and it... uh... I think it will make up for it.
> 
> Also, here's another reminder to my trans and/or enby fam, you're all amazing and I love you all and I hope you're having amazing days. I am... just a baby myself, when it comes to the whole trans thing, despite my advanced age, but if you still want a listening ear or a hug or anything, [I welcome Tumblr messages and anon asks are always on](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com).
> 
> Finally, if anyone's curious, this story is currently written up to chapter 8, and I just started 9 last night. Latest updates, including occasional small preview snippets, are [on my Tumblr under their own tag](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/tagged/ifof%3A-the-human-au-for-some-reason)!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley visits a certain bookstore, and has a certain realization. He also blows up a chicken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This chapter has art](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/188405907844/crowley-took-the-mug-his-hands-rested-over)! You may wish to open in a new/background tab and not view until you've finished the chapter, but it's up to you. <3!

“In my defense,” Crowley began, before taking another pull from his beer. “_In_ my defense, I did not know that chickens could explode.”

Eric stared at him over the GM screen. “You strapped five pounds of gunpowder to it! How could it not?!”

“Well, in hindsight that all follows very logically, now doesn’t it?”

“Okay, so we’ve worked out that Lady D’Arkness is just over into incapacitated.” Nattie grabbed another character sheet. “Ty, you were standing right next to the Archdevil, right? So you’d take, um...”

“Roll two d10s,” Eric said. “Christ, what a massacre.”

“It was acting suspicious!”

“Look, Gurlington was over at the apothecary’s, so he’s fine. And obviously I hear the explosion and come out to investigate.” Aksha glanced at her own sheet. “At this level, I can cast Half Healing three times, so as long as nobody’s already _dead_, we should be okay.”

“I think I might be dead,” Ty said mournfully.

Eric scrubbed at their face. “Christ.”

“Lady D’Arkness needs a Half Heal. Gurlington – “ Nattie pointed at Aksha – “is unharmed. The Archdevil is only wounded, because he’s the tank, plus he’s too goddamn stupid to know he’s been injured anyway –”

“Hey!” Crowley jabbed a finger at his sheet. “12 INT!”

“Ty?”

“Poor Cell’Ar D’Oor,” moaned Ty. “You were too good for this world.”

“I think we’ve all learned a valuable lesson from this experience,” Crowley interjected.

“The lesson is that we shouldn’t let you carry the gunpowder!”

“Look, I’ll just heal you two and then. Uh.” Aksha checked her stats again. “Does anyone have a resurrection item in their inventory, by any chance?”

Eric closed their notebook with a thud. “Oh, don’t bother. The damn campaign’s over anyway. The Lord of the Dead Coast was keeping his soul in a phylactery here in town so he could spy on you guys. Then once you showed up at his tower he’d be invulnerable to damage because hey look, ma, no soul.” They glared at Crowley. “Except _somebody_ just blew up the damn phylactery. Lord of the Dead Coast is vanquished. Good job.”

“Um,” Ty said. “So Crowley did a speedrun of the campaign?”

Crowley pointed at him. “Damn right I did. And I told you that chicken was acting suspicious!”

“Two extra experience points for Crowley, even though I hate him, just because that was pretty impressive. Normal XP for everyone else, including Ty, who’s not dead for reasons. And now I guess I plan the next campaign.”

There was a chorus of grumbles, although now that Crowley had technically been proven correct, nobody really seemed mad at him anymore. Other than Eric, but they were just like that.

“So,” Nattie said around a mouthful of pizza. “Has anyone been to that bookshop by Yen Hee’s new flat? She said she tried looking around but the owner got really weird about it. She thinks he’s in the mob.”

Ty snorted. “I’ve been in there, like, five times now. No way that guy’s in the mob. He wears tartan bow ties, for God’s sake.”

Crowley choked on his beer.

“Um,” he said, totally casually. “This bookshop guy. Blond hair? Bit on the larger side? No fashion sense, even apart from the bow tie?”

“Yeah. You know him?”

“Is he in the mob?” Nattie added.

“No! I mean. Uh. I’ve never been in there, but obviously I’ve heard about him, and I was wondering...”

Wondering how Aziraphale was doing. Whether there was any way to know if he was thinking about Crowley. It’d been a couple of weeks since they’d run into each other at Muramoto’s, and Crowley had long since given up hope of not thinking about _him_.

“...you know. Why you think he’s not in the mob.”

“I dunno, he’s just too nice. I mean, you try to buy a book and he freaks out, but if you just want to sit and relax, he’s cool. He even brings cocoa sometimes.”

Crowley grinned. Oh. Oh, that was hilarious. A bookseller who refused to sell books. Who brought not-customers _cocoa_. How the hell was Aziraphale even an actual person?

Nattie shook her head. “The bookshop is totally a cover.”

“No, okay, look,” Ty said. “You wanna see? We can go over there now. Plenty of time to kill after the thing with the chicken anyway.”

“Um,” Crowley said.

Eric shrugged. “I’ve got work to do for the next campaign, but sure, knock yourselves out.”

“I’ll drive,” Aksha said.

“Er,” Crowley said.

“Lemme get my coat.”

“Oh, get mine too?”

“We’re totally going to find out he’s in the mob, you guys —”

“He’s not in the mob!”

Fuck.

He really shouldn’t have blown up that chicken.

* * *

When they got to the shop, it was closed. A handwritten sign said that the proprietor would return at some point midafternoon, unless he wouldn’t, in which case he would open at 10 AM sharp tomorrow, assuming he opened tomorrow at all, it being Sunday and therefore a traditional day of rest.

Which was hilarious. Kind of adorable, honestly. Same as the thing with the cocoa.

Nobody seemed inclined to wait around outside for the possibly-mobster owner to get back. Really, Crowley should have hopped back in Aksha’s car with the others, taken the ride back to his flat, and been grateful for the tiny bit of Aziraphale-ness he’d been able to experience today. It would have been the smart thing to do. The clever thing. Not the stupid thing, like —

“I’ve actually got some errands I can run while I’m out,” he said. He shoved his hands in his pocket, slouching under the sleek messenger bag which hid all his gaming stuff. “I’ll see you guys round, hey?”

He took a walk around the block, and the shop was still closed.

Another lap. Still closed.

After the third try, he just gave up on all pretense and leaned against the doorframe. Hi, Aziraphale. Yes, I was waiting for you, in the cold. Yes, that’s weird and creepy. How’re you?

Maybe ten minutes later, Crowley saw him. Wearing one of his variations on the same old ridiculous outfit — antique overcoat, velvet waistcoat, button-up shirt with tartan bow tie. Old-fashioned trousers and shoes. Coming down the pavement, and he didn’t look to have noticed Crowley yet, but — 

Aziraphale stumbled to a stop. It was only for a moment, but when he started up again, it was at a much faster pace. Was he hurrying to reach Crowley? No. No, he was just eager to open up for a customer. That had to be it. No way it was about Crowley specifically.

Did he always smile that broadly to see a customer, though? Lucky customers. Lucky Crowley, today.

He wished his heart wasn’t beating so fast.

“Crowley!” There was no missing the delight in Aziraphale’s voice. “Oh, I — good Lord, what a surprise — I wish I had known you’d be here! I wouldn’t have gone out, I would have stayed and — oh. Hello!”

He was fumbling with a set of keys as he spoke, trying to unlock the door while also turning repeatedly back toward Crowley. His eyes all but glowed, he was smiling so much. For once the blush dusting his cheeks wasn’t because of something stupid Crowley had said.

“Couple scones from the Clover, then?”

There, Crowley was back on brand. Stupid non-sequitur. Perfect way to embarrass them both, seeing as Aziraphale wasn’t carrying scones or anything else.

Aziraphale blushed a darker pink, just as expected, and looked down at the ground for a moment, the smile gone small and thoughtful. “The new staff never tucks in an extra one, I’m afraid. Only you did that.”

The door opened at last. “Ah! After you.”

Crowley mumbled something incoherent as he squeezed by Aziraphale and walked through the door.

“I’m so glad you’ve visited,” Aziraphale said behind him. “I would have loved to have invited you, but — well, I don’t have your number.”

Crowley turned to watch as Aziraphale paused beside a coat rack.

“So I did hope you’d stop by,” Aziraphale added, and started removing his clothes.

Crowley made a haunted little sound in his throat which he managed to turn into a non-committal grunt. It was fine. Aziraphale was just taking off his coat. And was that how a body like that would move as its owner twisted around, reaching up to hang the coat, waistcoat rising almost enough to expose the shirt beneath before being tugged back down again? He’d had no idea. None. Couldn’t believe he’d never so much as thought about it before in his life.

There was something very, very wrong with Crowley’s heart. He wished he could breathe enough to figure out what.

“Yh.” He cleared his throat so he could actually join the conversation. “I’m. I’m here now.”

Aziraphale’s voice was so gentle that Crowley shivered. “You are.”

Then, in a more normal tone: “Oh dear. I rather kept you waiting in the cold, didn’t I? We can do a tour later — please do come this way, let’s get you settled in the back room...”

There was a couch and a chair in back, old and comfortable-looking and heaped with blankets and pillows. Several of these, Crowley was simultaneously appalled and delighted to notice, were tartan.

Crowley took the couch, distracting himself with the room as Aziraphale did something in a tiny kitchen corner. Nice space. Crammed full of bookshelves, as if Aziraphale had run out of room on the shop floor. Large, fluffy rug on the floor, antique record player near one wall. Spacious if not for the shelves. The entire shop had an impressive amount of space to it, actually. “Place like this must cost a fortune in Soho,” Crowley called, not actually looking toward Aziraphale. “Are you secretly a billionaire?”

“Or an agent of organized crime?” Aziraphale walked back over to him with a sort of quiet giggle. “I’ve heard the rumors. It’s actually quite boring, though.” He held a steaming mug out to Crowley. “I inherited the shop, and it’s maintained by a trust in perpetuity. Has been since, oh, 1833, I believe it was.”

Crowley took the mug. His hands rested over Aziraphale’s briefly, as he did so, and his breathing crashed to a stop. So soft. The mug was bordering on hot, but Aziraphale’s hands were warm, and so incredibly soft...

“Got it? There you are.” Aziraphale vanished, returning with his own mug, sitting down in the chair across from Crowley. “I’m afraid it’s only a serviceable Darjeeling. Out of everything else until my resupply run tomorrow.”

“‘S fine,” Crowley mumbled. “You made it. It’ll be perfect.” Then he realized he was doing it again, so he took a gulp of his tea to shut himself up.

Aziraphale might have blushed behind his own mug. It was hard to tell.

Crowley looked at Aziraphale, safe behind his sunglasses, except actually _not_ safe, not at all; because there was something he was only just now consciously realizing, even though, on some level, he’d already known it for weeks.

He’d been perfectly aware that Aziraphale was clever. Aziraphale was funny and a little snarky and kind on purpose, because, he said, somebody had to be.

There was a giddy bottomless feeling growing in Crowley’s stomach now, though, because he was realizing that Aziraphale was also sort of attractive. Same way a spotlight was sort of bright.

Explained why his mouth kept trying to kill him by stammering out flirtatious nonsense, didn’t it? Why he couldn’t stop thinking about Aziraphale. Why he definitely had a crush on him, and had on that evening at Muramoto’s, and probably had since the Clover Cafe. He’d counted every time Aziraphale had come in after the day with the umbrella. Of course he had. Of course.

Oh, this was bad.

“Crowley?”

“Myeah?”

“There you are.” Aziraphale’s eyes crinkled. “You were woolgathering, a bit. Starting to wonder if you’d fallen asleep.”

“‘M awake.” He sipped his tea. “Just thinking.”

Aziraphale nodded. “I was too, actually. I still owe you from our dinner at Muramoto’s.”

_Our dinner_. Like it was a date. “Uh?” Crowley mumbled.

“Secrets.” An impish little smile passed across his lips. “Two of mine as payment for two of yours.”

“Your, uh, um.” Crowley swallowed. “Look, that was just Anathema and Liz being... them. We don’t, you don’t have to —”

“I’d like to.”

Crowley stared. “Okay. Yeah.”

“So. Secret number one.”

He wasn’t whispering it, wasn’t speaking it right into Crowley’s ear, but that was probably better. Crowley could maybe hold on to some of his remaining dignity with Aziraphale sitting across the room. But with Aziraphale leaning over him, maybe resting a hand on his shoulder, maybe scattering breath across his cheek? He’d have no chance at all, then.

Aziraphale looked at him, across the space between them, and Crowley thought he’d never seen a prettier pair of hazel eyes.

“I missed our time together at the coffee shop, after you left.” Aziraphale took a deep breath, but didn’t drop his gaze. “I missed it very much.”

Blood pounded in Crowley’s ears.

“Oh,” he said.

Aziraphale looked down at his mug, then, eyebrows drawing together a little bit as the silence spun out.

“I, uh. I did too.”

The smile Aziraphale turned on him after that would’ve knocked him over if he’d been standing. Even sitting, he could barely keep his hands steady enough to take another gulp of his tea.

“I’d actually like to hold onto the other one, if I may. Just for now.” Aziraphale’s eyes cut away, suddenly, finding something interesting on the other side of the room. “There’s one I’d... I’d like to be able to share, but... I’m not sure it’s the right time, yet.”

“S-sure,” Crowley wheezed.

That earned him another smile. “Thank you, Crowley. I —” Aziraphale dropped his eyes again, but the smile didn’t leave his lips. “Thank you.”

Crowley slammed back the rest of his tea.

The conversation started to lighten after that, a little bit. Aziraphale gave him a tour of the shop, showing him row after row of mostly antiques. He seemed to know dozens of stories about how different books had come into the shop’s possession, and Crowley listened to them all in a state of near-rapture. Aziraphale plainly adored these things. He could start reading out loud from the indexes if he wanted, and Crowley would still be all ears.

Eventually they wound up at the register, Aziraphale sitting on the stool behind the counter and Crowley leaning against it. They’d just been chatting, about Crowley’s job and about Aziraphale’s books and about music (Aziraphale had barely even _heard_ of Queen, which Crowley was already vaguely thinking that he would have to correct). Crowley kept shifting against the counter, leaning in closer each time, Aziraphale’s head tilting up to meet him, and then he thought he saw Aziraphale’s eyes flit downward, just a bit, just for an instant —

Crowley drew in a shaky breath. He could kiss Aziraphale now, if he wanted. He’d just have to bridge that last gap. The last handful of inches separating those soft pink lips from his own.

He straightened up.

Sure, kiss Aziraphale, and then what? Be rejected immediately, most likely. Or if not, then once Aziraphale realized he was ace. Or realized he was trans. Or by some miracle they’d get past all that, maybe try something out for a while, but then Aziraphale would get tired of him anyway, and Crowley would be back to square one, just with a new hole punched from what was left of his heart. And there was so goddamn little left.

So he straightened up, and “It’s raining,” he said, realizing. “Shit. Getting late, too. I need to, I. Should get home.”

He might have heard a sigh.

Aziraphale rose from his seat. “I’m afraid I can’t offer you a ride, seeing as I don’t have a car. I can call you a cab...?”

“No, I. I think I want to walk. It’s not that far.” Crowley felt his hands creep into his pockets. “Not raining that hard.”

“Are you sure?” Hazel eyes gazing into his, lip caught between worrying teeth. “I don’t want you falling ill, Crowley.”

He was already falling, already dying. What did it matter? “I’m sure.”

“All right. Only...”

Aziraphale stepped out from behind the counter, walking toward the door, toward the coat rack. Crowley couldn’t figure out what he was doing until he saw it: the white umbrella, clutched in both of Aziraphale’s hands. Held out to him like something precious.

He accepted it in the same vein. Reverently. Thinking of the last time he’d seen it.

“Thanks, Aziraphale. You’re an angel.”

The words were out before he could stop them, and Crowley almost couldn’t bear to look even through his glasses.

Aziraphale ducked his head, so sharply that Crowley almost missed the flare of red that spread over his entire face. His hands squeezed against each other.

“Am I, now?” he whispered.

Crowley felt his chest hitch, felt something wobble inside. “Y... yeah,” he answered, voice hoarse. “Let’s say yeah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [whispering softly] _finally the "angel" nickname is here i have waited for so long_
> 
> The first part of the gaming scene was [posted on my Tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/187968325539/i-wrote-a-whole-bunch-of-gaming-group-dialogue-for) a while back. I included a few fun facts then which I will reproduce here:
> 
>   * This is a made-up gaming system because I didn’t feel like sticking to anything real.
>   * The party’s healer, Gurlington G Gurlington, was born in the Gurlington Goat Factory. He is obsessed with goats.
>   * Lady D’Arkness is a purposefully super over-the-top dark seductive femme fatale character, except she’s secretly something ridiculous like three aardvarks in a trenchcoat. Or [Chicken Boo](https://animaniacs.fandom.com/wiki/Chicken_Boo) or something. Lotta Bluff rolls going on.
>   * Crowley’s character’s name, Archdevil, would be pronounced “ark-devil”, like how archangel is pronounced “ark-angel” and not “arch”.
>   * idk what’s up with Cell’Ar D’Oor other than [the Tolkien thing](http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Cellar_door).
>   * Chickens being suspicious/not-to-be-trusted/scary is something I picked up in the early oughts from the webcomic [Bite Me](http://www.bitemecomic.com) by Dylan Meconis, and have tried to work into various things ever since.
>   * Dead Coast comes from a speech-to-text fail from a texting friend (it was supposed to be “dentist”). I like it. I may find somewhere else to use it.
>   * You’re an important human being and I hope you’re having a lovely day.
> 
> Chapter 5 will be posted on Monday, October 21st!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This... thing with Aziraphale won't work. It can't possibly work. It isn't even a _thing_. Crowley is going to cut himself off now before he just gets hurt yet again.
> 
> Except Aziraphale didn't get that memo, so he asks Crowley to lunch.

Crowley’s memory started up again at some point after he’d made it home.

There wasn’t anything in between. No memories of actually bidding Aziraphale goodbye, or of the walk home. Not even the fuzziest sense of what he’d done in between. He was standing before Aziraphale, calling him an angel, having the endearment actually be _accepted_; and then he was in the flat. Standing in the entranceway, back against the closed door, holding Aziraphale’s umbrella in one weak-fingered hand. There was a puddle around him, from the umbrella and his boots and the bottom halves of his trousers. Most of him had made the journey completely dry, though, hadn’t it? He’d been protected. Aziraphale had laid his white-shining armor upon him. Had laid his _holiest of shields_ upon him. Blessed him and his journey. Brought him home, safe and sound.

“He gave you an umbrella, mate,” Crowley muttered to himself. “Calm the fuck down.”

His blood was still pounding, though. Every time it started to quiet, he’d hear Aziraphale’s voice in his head again and his poor abused heart would give another uneven lurch. “I missed our time together.” God. “Am I, now?” _God_.

“God and Satan and fucking Cthulhu at the bottom of the sea,” he groaned. “I can’t do this again.”

At least the others weren’t home yet. He could stumble off to his room and die in peace.

The umbrella got slotted in carefully in with the household collection, but a little apart, like he didn’t want to sully its brilliance too much with more earthly matter. He peeled off his boots and socks and left them there. Sunglasses dropped on a table. Trousers dumped in the laundry as he went by. Once in the privacy of his own room, he slumped facedown onto the bed in his pants, messenger bag still slung over one shoulder.

“Whyyyyy.”

He was just going to lie here a little longer. Try not to think about Aziraphale and his soft hands and his soft heart and how he actually _was_ an angel, as close to a genuine fucking angel as anyone could ever hope to be. Aziraphale was an angel, and meanwhile Crowley was falling, burning as he fell, something in his chest gone fission-hot and lighting him up from the inside.

“I’m gonna kill him with the contact embarrassment from just _knowing_ me,” Crowley mumbled into his duvet.

Several minutes passed. Crowley’s face itched.

“Fuck. Okay.” He sat up, letting his bag slump off his shoulder. His phone was... still in his trousers. Right. Wallet and keys. Maybe don’t wash those. He stumbled out long enough to collect everything, then locked himself back in his room and checked his phone.

There was a new contact with a number he didn’t recognize. The contact name was “angel”. Also a text conversation with two messages: him sending “test”, and “angel” sending a smiley face in return.

“Stop _smiling_ at me, you bastard,” he muttered at the screen.

He flopped back onto the bed, glowering at the pothos on the nightstand, daring it to say anything. Any smart comments? No? Keep it that way. Crowley didn’t need anyone telling him how fucked he was. He already knew that he had to stop this, had to separate himself from Aziraphale before he got hurt. There wasn’t any way this could end with him happy. Nothing ever did. Quiet melancholy of an empty routine, that was the best he could hope for, and even that was greedy of him. Killing time from one day to the next, going to work and coming home again. Spending time with his mates while pretending his chest wasn’t rotting inside out from loneliness. Years passing, nothing really changing or mattering, and him still alone in the end, once everyone got around to leaving him...

Even if Aziraphale could feel something for him, maybe, it’d still end up the same. It would just hurt more when the leaving happened.

So he’d have to find a way to step back now. Exchanging numbers had been yet another mistake, he’d plainly been off his head during that memory gap, but he could salvage this. Just suddenly get really busy at work. Lots of extra hours, trying to save up for that car he'd wanted for ages, no time to visit, sorry, what a shame. Yeah. He just needed time. He could kill this, he _could_, if he just tried harder, as long as he didn’t have to see Aziraphale any time soon.

It was a good decision. Excellent. One he could make himself learn to live with.

Except he still had Aziraphale’s umbrella.

He buried his face in his hands and groaned.

* * *

The best course of action he could think of would be to wait for Aziraphale to text about the umbrella. Probably the guy was busy, what with running his own small business and all, so it’d be a while before he would get around to it. Crowley could then wait a day or two before responding. Something polite but distant, and completely on-topic. They’d arrange a drop-off time and that would be the end of it.

Aziraphale didn’t get the memo, though. He texted Crowley the next morning, just after nine.

_Hello Crowley! I was wondering whether you would like to join me for lunch sometime this week. I understand if your schedule doesn’t allow, but I would appreciate your company._

Ridiculous. Who even used proper punctuation in texts anymore? Or double-spaced between sentences? Other than Aziraphale, apparently. No, of course Crowley wouldn’t have lunch with him, that was the opposite of what he’d decided. He’d wait a few days and then turn him down.

_Yeah sounds good_, he found himself tapping out not two hours later, in between getting ready for work. _Im off tuesday. where and when?_

The response was immediate. _What would you say to Thai food? We could meet at my shop at noon and walk over._

_great. c u then_

Aziraphale sent him two smiley faces back.

* * *

“You sure? I could really use the hours.”

His manager shrugged. “Right now, I’ve got Mamta and Jill scheduled. You could try swapping with one of them, but...”

“Yeah, never mind. Thanks anyway.” Swapping would just make him open for lunch with Aziraphale another day. He needed his calendar to be full.

Lying to Aziraphale, _claiming_ to be working when he wasn’t, was obviously not an option. He wasn’t about to lie to an angel.

* * *

“Look, I’m just saying, if either of you _wanted_ to have some kind of an emergency that you needed my help with on Tuesday, that’d be fine by me. Really. No problem at all.”

Anathema rolled her eyes. “Would you please get over the cold feet and just go on your date already?”

“‘S not a _date_,” Crowley muttered.

* * *

He pushed through the bookshop door at 11:56 Tuesday morning.

The bell jingled overhead, but nobody came to greet him. Maybe Aziraphale was helping a customer. Or giving cocoa to a not-customer. Crowley fought a grin.

He dropped off the umbrella by the door before wandering the shelves a little, half looking for Aziraphale, half just browsing. He couldn’t make any sense of how the place was laid out even after his tour on Saturday, but he’d managed to locate the mystery novels, and was trying to see if he could find any involving ducks.

“Excuse me, but I’m afraid those books are —”

Crowley jumped, making a noise that was mostly vowels.

“Oh, my goodness. I’m so sorry, Crowley, I didn’t realize it was you.”

“Saright. Just... just let me finish dying here.” He thumped his chest a couple of times. “Fuck. You sounded like you were about to arrest me.”

He looked up, finally, and was glad he had an excuse for being short of breath.

Aziraphale’s eyes were wide, a little worried, as he reached out to Crowley; although he seemed to think better of it, because he pulled his hand back, letting it rest with the other against his belly. Today his eyes were blue, Crowley decided. A gentle grayish blue.

Above Aziraphale’s eyes, his hair almost glowed in the light coming in through the windows. The curls were so fluffy today, so beautifully defined, that they might have been made for touching. Below his eyes, below the turned-up tip of his nose, his soft mouth hung just barely open, rounded in a tiny O. As though he’d been as startled as Crowley.

He’d be even more startled if Crowley were to cover that mouth with his own, wouldn’t he? Eyes gone even bigger, jaw dropping in pure shock… and then, maybe, once that moment of surprise had passed, he might begin to respond…

“Hrlk,” Crowley remarked. “Think I’m. Think I’m okay now.”

“Thank goodness. We can hardly go to lunch if you’re in hospital.”

“I could find a way,” he said, and just in time he cut off the word that wanted to follow that, because it was _angel_, his traitor mouth was trying to kill him again. _I could find a way, angel_. No. God. The first part was bad enough.

Aziraphale’s cheeks colored prettily, and he looked away, an uncertain smile passing over his lips. Probably trying to decide whether he wanted to call it off before Crowley did anything else weird.

“Shall I close up, then?”

“Yeah. Sure. Close the... thing.”

This time the smile was bright and sure. “Just have to fetch my coat on the way out.”

Crowley let himself be led out of the maze of shelves, and very carefully did _not_ look as Aziraphale pulled on his coat. Maybe his wide body was twisting, luxuriantly stretching, as he dressed, all his softness moving and shifting in ways Crowley didn’t even yet know how to dream. Maybe not. Crowley refused to find out.

“Shall we?”

“Lead on, angel,” Crowley responded, and he didn’t realize what he’d said until Aziraphale dropped his keys.

* * *

It was a nice day for the time of year. They both agreed on this, once they were outside, the shop locked up behind them and Aziraphale’s keys safely back in his pocket. Very nice day. Not too cold. Yes.

Fortunately, a passing car nearly ran down a cyclist, which gave them something to think about besides Crowley being an idiot.

“So,” Crowley observed. “You run a bookshop. What is that actually like, as an, an activity?”

Aziraphale beamed. “It’s quite rewarding! Especially since I don’t have to worry about its finances. I practically grew up in the shop, you know, when I wasn’t away at school. And now that it’s mine, I can spend all the time I like reading.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Do you actually sell anything?”

“I —”

“Because I’ve heard things.”

“I sell only to discerning customers,” Aziraphale said, raising his chin. “It isn’t my fault that so many people don’t — don’t _appreciate_ my books as much as I do.”

“Uh huh.” Crowley watched Aziraphale step out into the street, not even looking for traffic. He hurried after and raised an apologetic hand to the oncoming Nissan. “_Your_ books. Seems like maybe you’re unclear on the meaning of book_shop_. You’ve got to let people buy things occasionally.”

“I didn’t ask you over for business advice, Crowley, I asked you to lunch.”

“I can do both! I’m a multi-tasker.”

“You are an _irritation_,” Aziraphale replied, but when Crowley glanced over, there was a smile on his round face.

“‘S what makes pearls, Aziraphale. Someday you’ll thank me for all the character I’m helping you build.”

Aziraphale laughed at that, the sound high and clear. Crowley wriggled his fingers in his pockets, smirking up at the sky, and rode a wave of elation all the way to the restaurant.

* * *

Aziraphale couldn’t decide between the pad panang or the evil jungle noodles.

“Don’t see how noodles can be evil, though.” Crowley squinted at the menu. “Seems, I dunno. Judgey.”

“I don’t think that’s what —”

“But look. Who says you have to choose.” He jabbed at his menu. “You get the pad thingy, I get the evil noodles, and we share. I can see for myself if they’re actually evil. Satanic noodles. Sounds spooky.”

“If you’re amenable to that lunch choice, then I think it sounds like a splendid idea.”

“Sure. Splendid.” Crowley grinned. “Also, I bet they’re not evil at all. Just misunderstood.”

Aziraphale maybe tried to hide a smile behind his water glass, but his pretty eyes gave him away. “You really aren’t going to let this go, are you.”

“Nnnope.”

“I am beginning to regret inviting you for lunch.”

“Hey, you brought this on yourself.” He slouched back in his chair. “‘Oh, lunch with Crowley,’ I assume you said. ‘There’s an idea which won’t at all end in a conversation about the moral nature of noodles.’ More fool you, I spose.”

Aziraphale tilted his head, looking at Crowley. A little smirk curved across his lips. “More fool me,” he agreed. “Here I’d been thinking we could just enjoy each other’s company like normal people.”

“Hrgh,” Crowley said, forcing his eyes away from those lips. “Fraid you’ll be disappointed there. I’m definitely not a normal person.”

“But — good, though.” The little smirk lost its edge. “You’re a good sort of person. I think.”

Something thudded stupidly in Crowley’s chest. “Thanks,” he muttered.

The thudding thing rose in his throat, crowding up against the backs of his teeth. If he opened his mouth now, it would all spill out, onto the table, onto the floor. _I can’t stop thinking about you_, maybe, or _I think you might actually be beautiful and I’m only just now cluing in on that very important fact_. Or just _angel_, just _angel angel angel_, a flood composed of nothing but that one word, pooling around their feet until it swept him out to sea and put him out of his fucking misery.

He opened his mouth.

“You,” he started, and when Aziraphale looked up at him, the stupid thudding thing inside him pulsed an ache inside his throat, against his ribs. “You’re not a normal person either, yeah? So it works out. I guess.”

Aziraphale’s mouth quirked downward. “Why, thank you, Crowley. I’ve never been called abnormal in such a nice way before.”

“‘S not what I —” Crowley caught the little twinkle in Aziraphale’s eye, and he groaned. “You’re also a bastard. Anyone ever told you that?”

Aziraphale tapped thoughtful fingers against his smile. “Mmm, you. Just now.”

“Bastard.” Then, without bloody thinking at all, “I like it, though.”

The tapping fingers stilled. Aziraphale looked down at the table, round cheeks gone pink yet again.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. “Anyway! You hungry? Sure you’re hungry. ‘S why we’re at lunch. Let’s, uh —” He waved frantically until the server noticed them. “Let’s order some misunderstood noodles.”

“Misunder...” Aziraphale breathed quiet laughter. “I definitely regret inviting you for lunch.”

“Stuck with me now, though. Don’t envy you that at all.”

“It’s a tragic fate, yes.” Aziraphale smiled as their server approached. “Good afternoon, Emily! So nice to see you again, my dear lady...”

Crowley watched as Aziraphale chattered with her, rattling off their orders, laughing and nodding at what was apparently some kind of shared joke. Was he just a regular everywhere around here? Was it just that everyone loved him?

Not that Crowley — no. This was, admittedly, a crush, an _extremely stupid_ crush to be having, because Aziraphale was much too clever a person to keep hanging around with someone like Crowley. And Aziraphale would realize that, obviously, if he wasn’t starting to already. He’d wise up, leave Crowley behind, and that would be that.

Which was good. Crowley plainly didn’t have the willpower to cut himself off from all this on his own. Aziraphale would do it soon, though, obviously it would be soon; and that would be it for Crowley’s stupid crush. He’d never have the chance to get any more invested than that.

Good. Great.

The evil jungle noodles turned out to be definitely not evil, gluey and delicious in a red curry sauce. Aziraphale’s pad panang was maybe even a little better. Just a bit spicy.

The way Aziraphale obviously enjoyed both — each careful bite taken with relish, and the very first mouthful had actually yielded a hum of such pure delight that Crowley could practically feel it in his own throat — was best of all. It made him feel... almost comforted. Secure. Like everything was right with the world as long as Aziraphale was happy. As long as he could be part of _making_ Aziraphale happy.

Just the crush talking. Stupid. Still didn’t stop him clearing his throat, once Aziraphale had finished, and asking the same question he’d asked at Muramoto’s two weeks ago. “How was it?” 

Aziraphale gave him one of those smiles that made his whole face glow. “Simply delicious, my dear fellow.”

“Good. That’s good.”

They each paid their own half, which made sense, because this wasn’t a date. Crowley walked Aziraphale back to the bookshop only because that way they could finish their conversation. And when he started talking about heading home, Aziraphale only looked disappointed because... No, that part was definitely just Crowley’s imagination.

“See you later, a — _Aziraphale_.”

Aziraphale smiled at him, and he felt a couple of internal organs tilt. “Goodbye, Crowley. Take care.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Evil jungle noodles and pad panang are two of my favorite things to get when my personal platonic Crowley and I do Thai takeout. I still don't know what makes the noodles evil, though.
> 
> Chapter 6 will be posted on Monday, October 28th. I will _not_ be posting an AU chapter on Thursday the 24th -- I plan to post an extremely Soft(TM) standalone canonverse fic instead. It will be my 20th work on AO3!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley comes up with a new plan to break himself away from Aziraphale before he falls any deeper. He also gets an unexpected phone call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter-specific warning notes:**
> 
>   * Reference to the experience of feeling pressured into sex, although none of that happens in the text
>   * Reference to fatphobic comments, although none are in the text
>   * Some mildly transphobic comments, including references to using birth name
>   * The word "fat" is used, but never, ever negatively, because this is the Soft Zone(TM).

The dream took a few different forms, but the core stayed mostly the same. Crowley could be anywhere, just standing somewhere, or sitting. Doing God knew what. Aziraphale would call his name.

He’d turn, and Aziraphale would be _there_, glowing with golden light that was hard to look at, a little. Close enough that when Crowley reached out, the soft body would tumble easily into his arms.

Aziraphale was always his, in the dream. Warm and tender and clinging, snuggled perfectly in his grasp, like the size and shape of him had been designed for only this. If Crowley was sitting, Aziraphale would be curled up round and heavy in his lap. If Crowley was standing, Aziraphale would lean into him with an insistence that Crowley would give in to, instantly, utterly.

Aziraphale’s arms would loop around Crowley, pulling him close, cradling him. Crowley would sink into that blissful embrace. His heart would be full of how _beautiful_ Aziraphale was, how precious and cherished and good; and he would try to say these things in his dream, but his words were always jumbled, or unheard.

Usually there would be a kiss. Closed lips lying soft against each other, maybe, or mouths parted just enough to breathe each other in. A gentle give and take of yielding yearning pressure that seemed to go on forever.

Sometimes the dream would shift, Aziraphale’s mouth going rough and greedy against his own, invading and claiming him in a horribly familiar way. The body pressed to his would show a different kind of insistence. Would move against him in a way that really only suggested one thing.

Those were the bad ones. He’d wake up in a panic from those, half-expecting there to be someone in the bed next to him. Like it was twenty years ago, fifteen, ten, and the horrible claiming of his body wasn’t just a dream, it was his reality, because that was what it took to keep another person’s love, even for a little while...

But mostly they ended the other way. Aziraphale would kiss him gently, would cuddle up against him without seeking anything more. Crowley would try to tell him how beautiful he was, how absolutely flawless, but the words would echo into nothing. And eventually Aziraphale would join them. He’d melt away in Crowley’s arms, going dim and insubstantial, until there was no sign he’d ever been there at all.

Crowley woke up from those ones crying.

He didn’t tell anyone about the dreams, obviously. There was no one to tell. _Nothing_ to tell. Just his brain being weird. Nothing new about that. Brains were always weird. All wrinkly and squishy.

Aziraphale had texted him a few days after they’d had lunch. He’d heard there was a new coffee shop over in Mayfair which served a particularly good espresso, and would Crowley like to give it a try with him? Which, of course Crowley would. They’d met at the bookshop again and walked over together, the brisk October cool pinking Aziraphale’s cheeks without Crowley having to do anything stupid at all.

Two days after that, Crowley had texted Aziraphale. _So heres a thing_, he’d sent. _Shakespeares hamlet but all the actors r fuckin pissed for the whole play. one night only, thursday@8. u in?_

_Good Lord_, Aziraphale had sent back. _I’m simultaneously horrified and intrigued. I do think the intrigue is winning, though. How would I go about getting a ticket?_

_nah I got it my treat_

The answer didn’t come in for a while, maybe because Aziraphale had gotten a customer to shoo away. When Crowley’s phone finally did buzz again, it was for three words. _That sounds lovely._

When he saw the look Aziraphale was giving him as they left the theater, Crowley laughed hard enough that he had to lean against a wall. “Fine, fine,” he wheezed, once he’d recovered a little. “Next time I won’t pick the play.”

“Certainly not,” Aziraphale replied. “From now on that will be up to me.”

Crowley didn’t realize what he’d said, or how Aziraphale had responded — and Aziraphale had been _blushing_ when he’d responded, although that hadn’t stopped him — until they were halfway back to the shop.

When they reached their destination, Aziraphale paused. “I don’t suppose you’d care to join me for a glass of wine? It’s a bit of a tradition of mine, after a night out at the theater.”

“Oh, so at least you considered this theater, then.”

“I didn’t say it was _good_ theater.”

“It was genius. Very avant-garde. You’re just an old stick-in-the-mud.”

Aziraphale’s eyes flashed laughter at him in the half-dark, and Crowley realized that he actually did want to join him for that wine. He didn’t even drink wine. Didn’t matter.

His hand actually started moving toward Aziraphale before he was able to get it under control. What the hell did it think it was going to do? Not touch him on the arm. Not stroke his pretty hair. Those weren’t the sorts of things that were an option here.

Crowley trapped both hands in his pockets. “I think I should head home, actually. ‘S late. Got work tomorrow.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale nodded, eyes losing their sparkle. “Of course, how thoughtless of me. Do please forgive me.”

This time he didn’t stop the word. Should’ve. Didn’t. “Don’t worry about it, angel. G’night.”

He didn’t wait for an answer, just turned and ambled off, but he wasn’t so quick that he missed Aziraphale’s expression. Eyes wide, full of liquid light from the thin stars above, the shopfronts all around. His bottom lip slacked just a little, mouth opening the tiniest bit. He wasn’t blushing. Maybe that would come when the initial shock had worn off.

Aziraphale’s voice was calm enough when he called after him, though. “Good night, then, Crowley. Be well.”

* * *

Crowley slowed down once he was out of sight. His hands came out of his pockets, curling around his upper arms, until he was hugging himself against the cold. At least, that was probably what anyone watching him would think.

_From now on that will be up to me_. Aziraphale had said that. _Next time_, that had been Crowley’s, but Aziraphale had come back with _From now on_.

From now on. God. Did Aziraphale realize what that implied? He’d opened up a whole world of the two of them going to the theater, not just once or twice but enough that they’d need a ground rule for it. And he’d blushed when he’d said it. He had to know. Didn’t he?

This wasn’t supposed to be happening. Aziraphale was supposed to get tired of him, creeped out by his constant accidental flirting, by being called _angel_ — fuck, how weird must that be, getting called that by a man you hardly know — he was supposed to start pulling away. Start leaving Crowley behind before this crush got any worse.

Everyone always got tired of Crowley eventually. Liz and Anathema seemed to have some kind of perennial tolerance for him, and gaming groups didn’t really see that much of him, so it’d probably be a little longer before the latest one started going south. But the entire rest of his world was rearview mirror. Friends, partners, didn’t matter. One day he’d look up and realize someone he’d once thought of as crucial had fucking vanished from his life. That was how it went.

He didn’t _want_ that to happen with Aziraphale. Not that he ever wanted it with anyone, but...

Crowley kicked at the pavement. “‘M getting too old for this,” he muttered to himself. “Already am. Too bloody old.”

He couldn’t pull himself away, that much was obvious. Give him two days, he’d be running back again, sending another text, maybe even dropping by the shop. _Hey angel. Still got that wine you mentioned?_

Maybe that was the answer. Stop fighting against his traitor mouth, against the word that wanted to tumble out and coil itself around Aziraphale every time he saw him. Just let it happen — the little comments, the flirting, the pet name. Holding back wasn’t an option, but he could certainly speed up.

Fine. Okay. New game plan. And his heart wasn’t suddenly beating harder at the idea of being free to do all that embarrassing crap, no. It was just nerves. The knowledge that this was the end of it, the last stretch. Time to speed through it, too fast for Aziraphale to possibly be willing to put up with, so that they could put an end to this thing at last.

He didn’t really sleep that night, but probably it was unrelated.

* * *

Crowley’s phone rang the next morning, so early that his room was still mostly dark. _Aziraphale_ flashed across his mind, _Aziraphale, angel_, and he was scrabbling the phone up to his face and answering before he realized that that made no sense. The two of them never called, only texted.

“Hello?”

The voice on the line said the other name, not _Crowley_ which felt like the real him, and not _Anthony_ which was okay too. “Sweetie,” it went on. “How are you?”

“Mum.” His hand tightened on the phone. “Hi. I’m fine.”

“Good, good. Not sick? Your voice sounds so rough — well, of course, it always does these days, it really is a shame when you used to have such a sweet voice —”

“I’m _fine_. Just woke up is all.”

“All right, if you’re sure. I know I’ve been under the weather the last few days. It’s probably from work. The lady I’ve been watching lately is just so _unhealthy_. I mean, I understand that she has special needs, but you’d think she could take better care of herself.”

“Uh huh,” Crowley answered, the two syllables almost fitting into the brief silence allotted him.

“Last night was awful, really, I had to help her get a bath and...”

Crowley put the phone on mute and speaker, then left it on the bed while he watered his plants. He could try responding, try agreeing or offering counterpoints or asking clarifying questions, or anything else people normally did in conversations. It was too much work, though. Most of the time he’d get through a word or two and that would be it. Maybe a “yeah, I’ve heard —” if he was lucky.

His mum called two or three times a year, these days, when there was something she really wanted to talk about, or complain about. When she’d finally married her long-term boyfriend last spring, she’d just mailed a letter after the fact with a folded-up photograph. Hadn’t warranted a conversation, apparently.

She wasn’t a bad mum, exactly. He’d known so many other queer kids with far worse. But he’d known a few with better, too.

Crowley tuned back in for a moment, and realized it was time for the part where she detailed all the worst habits of the people she did assisted care for. They were always disobedient or sloppy or unpleasantly old. Or apparently in this case, all of the above, plus —

He unmuted the phone. “Mum. _Mum_.”

“What?”

“Yeah, I’m really not interested in hearing you go on about this woman’s weight. I don’t. Don’t see what it’s got to do with anything.”

“Well, if she just wasn’t so lazy —”

“Which is a different thing from being fat.” He wondered whether this woman had been married once, had been loved, before she’d wound up in care. Whether someone had seen only beauty in her. In all of her. She had to have experienced that at some point in her life. Right?

“I don’t know why you’re so offended.” His mum’s voice made it clear that Crowley was being almost as rude as her charges. “I’ll stop using that word if it’s such a big deal.”

“The word’s not the problem. ‘S just...” He sighed. “Never mind. Just, I don’t want to hear this. Okay?”

“Fine. I suppose you’re busy anyway. I won’t waste any more of your time.”

“Mum —”

“Goodbye, Crowley,” she said, except that wasn’t the name she used. “I hope you have a good day.” The line disconnected with a bloop.

Crowley let his phone fall onto the bed. “Same to you,” he muttered.

He thought about someone using that kind of tone to describe Aziraphale, and his stomach churned. Nobody deserved that. Not clever beautiful bastard Aziraphale, and not anyone else, either.

Not that Crowley would’ve said anything six months ago, would he? Wouldn’t’ve seen a point. Totally normal to hear that kind of thing. He would’ve just waited for his mum to finish and then made some noncommittal noise. Moved on. He hadn’t had a reason to care.

Aziraphale “I try to be kind because someone has to be” Possibly-Fell wouldn’t wait on a reason to care.

Well, at least he felt like total shit after talking to his mum. Good to know there were some constants in the world.

* * *

It was busy at Red Red that night, even for a Friday. Crowley barely got a chance to think from six until well past midnight. He almost locked himself in the freezer to scream after about the third table whose occupants plainly thought he was some kind of fucking miracle worker.

The manager pulled him over at one point. “Hey, Anthony — this is a tough one tonight, and I can tell you’re struggling out there...”

Crowley grunted a response.

“But you got this, okay?” They grimaced. “I think I’d’ve thrown that last guy’s lamb carpaccio right in his face, but you handled him really well. Thanks for that.”

“Uh. Yeah.” Crowley jerked a nod. “No problem.”

The rest of the night wasn’t any better, but at least he went home with a stack of notes in his wallet. Just that much closer to getting the Bentley back.

* * *

Crowley’s feet were taking him to Aziraphale’s shop, and for once, they were working with his permission. He’d just finished up the weekly gaming session at Eric’s flat; two nights ago had been the drunken Hamlet production, and Crowley’s private decision to force the end of all this. To go as fast as his stupid heart wanted to go. Turn Aziraphale against him just by being his unfiltered self. 

Fun activity for a Saturday afternoon. Fun thing in general, being so broken that it was actually weaponizable. Real fucking prize, he was.

The bell over the door jingled as he shoved his way through. The shop had been empty the first time he’d visited, but not today. A couple of the uncomfortable-looking armchairs scattered around were occupied, one by a woman who appeared to be sleeping, a mug of... oh, God, could that really be cocoa on the table beside her?

Someone browsing one of the shelves of more modern-looking novels just past the entryway. Someone at the counter. Behind the counter...

Crowley stopped fighting it. Let his mouth, his feet, all of him do whatever it wanted. Anything. Unfiltered and unrestrained and probably embarrassing enough that he’d be dead in thirty seconds anyway, so what did it matter.

The figure at the counter turned to go, and Aziraphale looked toward the door. His eyes met Crowley’s, widening just a little. Just for a second.

Crowley’s feet brought him up to the counter. His body leaned him over it. His mouth smiled, didn’t grin or smirk but _smiled_, without any irony to cushion his stupidity at all.

“Hey, Aziraphale,” his mouth said. “Wanna go for a walk?”

Aziraphale looked at him like he was an idiot, which only made sense. “I do have customers at the moment.” His voice was calm. A little tart. Probably nobody else would notice the faint color creeping over his face.

“Yeah, but St. James’s has ducks. Can get some bread on the way over. Ever fed the ducks? Love me some ducks.”

Aziraphale looked mildly taken aback. “Oh, Crowley, you mustn’t feed them _bread_. It has no nutrients for them at all.”

Crowley shrugged. “Fine. No bread then. Could still just walk.”

“I really oughtn’t.” Aziraphale’s eyes swept the room. Maybe avoiding Crowley’s. Maybe looking for an escape. “That gentleman over there might want to buy something, and Rosa has finally gotten off to sleep, poor thing, she’s been studying so hard and really needs to rest —”

“I’ll wait.”

Aziraphale cut off in the middle of his sentence.

“If you want to go.”

Crowley said it like his heart wasn’t thudding in his throat. Like he wasn’t absolutely terrified of what his words would do. Aziraphale was bright pink now, and his eyes were nowhere near Crowley’s, absolutely refusing to look at him. He opened his mouth, and this was it, this was the start of the end — 

“I do.”

Crowley blinked and gaped for a bit.

“Uh,” he remarked. “Okay. That, uh... okay.”

“Would you be willing to give me until... hmm... three-thirty?”

Crowley squeezed his eyes shut. “Give you as long as you like, angel,” he let his mouth answer. “‘S long as you need.”

He maybe heard a tiny sound. An intake of breath. Probably not. Hard to hear anything at all over the roaring in his ears.

He dared to glance at Aziraphale again, from behind the glasses. Aziraphale was looking down at the counter. His pudgy cheeks were still stained pink, and Crowley realized, with a sudden and painful lurch in his chest, that he wanted to kiss them.

“Thank you.” Aziraphale’s voice was barely above a murmur. “Then I would love to.”

Crowley swallowed. “Be around, then. Till you’re ready.”

He slouched off without waiting for an answer, finding a quiet corner where he could wonder how the fuck this had gone so wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please note that the update schedule for this week is different!** I will be updating Monday, Wednesday, and Friday (almost always somewhere between 8 and 9 in the morning, Central US time).
> 
> If you want to be aware of stuff like this ahead of time, you can always follow [my Tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com). I try to keep to Good Omens things there, but non-GO things are tagged as, appropriately enough, "not Good Omens". [This is the tag for this AU.](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/tagged/ifof%3A-the-human-au-for-some-reason)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley... actually has a good week, somehow. And he is definitely, absolutely not about to go on a date with Aziraphale. Because it isn't a date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter-specific warning notes:**
> 
>   * Brief reference to biphobia, but none is present in the text
>   * Brief mention of gender dysphoria

The next week was...

Good. It was really, really good.

Both of the waitstaff managers at work had talked to him, separately, about how he’d been doing lately. All positive. His usual manager even hinted at a possible reward if he kept it up. Apparently he was very good under pressure. News to him.

He’d had a great conversation with Warlock Tuesday evening. One of his mates at school had just come out as bi, and Crowley got to hear about half an hour’s worth of righteous fury over anyone having a problem with that at all. He thought he was going to fucking die, he was so proud of the kid. He’d’ve been happy to hear him go on forever, although when the subject did eventually change, it was to something else relevant to his interests.

“Oh, Dad was talking about our stuff in storage over there again.”

“The cars?”

“And some other stuff.” Warlock grinned. “I told him you wanted to buy the Bentley. He was like ‘well, thank Christ someone does.’ Then Mom got mad at him for swearing in front of me.”

“Yeah, it’s a bad fuckin’ habit,” Crowley replied automatically, and Warlock laughed.

The Bentley. He missed her so much, but if Dowling was maybe willing to make a deal...

“So you think he might sell her?”

“I dunno. But he didn’t say no.”

“Right. Okay. Well, he still has my cell number. Your mum still has my address for sending Christmas cards. I’m... I’m available.”

He didn’t even have his usual crushing dysphoria afterwards.

Meanwhile, Anathema and Liz had decided that they were going to get into horror movies, even though Anathema was the kind of person who hadn’t even heard of suspension of disbelief, and Liz scared so easy it was almost sad. Being the relative expert, Crowley got to help pick what they watched. This turned out to be somewhat more of a challenge than he’d originally expected.

“Okay, so _The Thing_ was... maybe a little more intense than you wanted. Today’s will be fine, though. You’ll love it.” He scrolled through his Netflix queue until he found it. “Classic. Absolute classic of the genre.”

“_House On Haunted Hill_?” Anathema raised an eyebrow. “So the hill’s haunted, but the house isn’t?”

“It’s, uh. Complicated. But there’s no weird melty monsters!” He gave Liz his most reassuring smile. Being at home meant the sunglasses were off, so hopefully she could see how sincere he was.

Liz burrowed a little deeper against Anathema’s side. “If it does get too scary, can we try that other one instead? _Candyman_? It sounds not so bad.”

Crowley considered that for about a third of a second. “Er... no. Not a good idea.”

So home was good, and work was good, and Warlock was a goddamn treasure, and maybe Dowling would sell him the Bentley. Maybe. The weather was beautiful for October and he’d slept great three nights in a row.

And he was seeing Aziraphale again on Saturday.

“Seeing” was maybe not the right word. It implied that there was an actual relationship here, that Aziraphale could ever possibly want that with him. Implied that Crowley could have anything to offer to the most beautiful man in Soho. But they’d had plans all week, had formed them while they were still on their previous outing, last weekend in the park. They’d texted back and forth every day in between. Long, wandering conversations about their days; about books they’d read or movies they’d seen; about them, little facts or anecdotes offered up randomly.

Aziraphale made a reference, at one point, to a seaside holiday he’d taken a few years back. For the rest of the day Crowley couldn’t stop coming back to the oddly distracting question of what he might have worn while there.

Crowley had called him “angel” again at St James’s Park last week, and _still_ Aziraphale seemed to want him around. It made his heart hurt, filled him with sick terror of the inevitable yet weirdly elusive end. But it felt so good, too.

Saturday they were going to meet for dinner at some posh-sounding French restaurant. Aziraphale had proposed the idea as they strolled through the park, almost idly. As if it was no big deal at all. Crowley hadn’t even heard of the place, and a quick Google gave him an excuse to not have to form a coherent answer for a minute, but as soon as he saw the words “bespoke 10-course menu”, he’d stopped right there on the pavement.

“Fuck. This is...” He went to look up the non-bespoke menu, but there were eight of them. “This is really not my normal scene, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale had raised a hand. “Ah, but I’ve made a splendid acquisition of rare Jules Vernes, and I would far rather celebrate in your company than alone.”

“I can’t afford this kind of place. I’m saving, you know I’m saving up for the Bentley —”

“Please, Crowley. It would be my treat.” And oh God, he’d done this _thing_, eyebrows going up, eyes wide, mouth soft and expectant; and when his head tipped down, just a little, the tender flesh beneath his chin folded so sweetly that Crowley’s heart sputtered to a stop — 

“Angel,” he’d breathed, bobbing a weak nod. “Yes. Okay. Yes.”

The smile he’d gotten from that had started his heart up again, triple-time.

So now it was Friday, and Crowley was getting ready for work, taking twice as long as usual because his phone kept buzzing. He and Aziraphale were talking astronomy for some reason. He’d never really mentioned his old obsession with the stars, or the books he still had cluttering up his room of the flat, but Aziraphale had asked whether he’d ever been to some observatory out in East Sussex. _never have, why?_, he sent back.

_No real reason. A customer mentioned going there recently to stargaze with her beau, and apparently it’s quite a lovely experience._

_nobody says “beau” anymore Aziraphale._

The quick bantering response was easy, and bought him some time with what was really going through his head. Him, and Aziraphale, and a dark night, far out in the countryside. They could sit on one of Aziraphale’s tartan blankets, maybe. He would put one arm around Aziraphale’s waist, hand pressed to his side, cupped full of warm soft angel. With the other hand he’d show him the stars. Tell him their names, their stories. He still remembered most of it. He’d share it all in the dark, the two of them cuddling ever closer as the night air cooled, until finally Aziraphale would stop his words with a kiss...

He took a deep breath. It was a good daydream, sure. Wouldn’t ever be anything more.

His phone buzzed. _You really do try my patience sometimes._ A pause. _But I enjoy it._

Crowley’s mouth curled up in a painful little smile.

_gonna keep doing it as long as your willing to put up with me so buckle in I guess_

Aziraphale’s answer was two smiley faces.

It took a few more deep breaths before Crowley was ready to head to work. That, and a quick swipe at his eyes.

* * *

Eric’s new campaign was going pretty good. Their party had found a mysterious structure in the woods near town, which had more rooms in it than really should have been possible. Most of those rooms were overrun with orcs. The Archdevil started carrying some of the freshly-dead ones around, on the logic that they might come in handy later on.

“It’s a renewable resource,” Crowley noted. “I’m just thinking of the planet.”

Nattie laughed. “As long as your pockets are too full of them for you to carry anything dangerous, then I’m fine with it.”

“You kidding? Nothing more dangerous than an orc corpse hurled at high velocity.”

The session ended with them camped out next to an apparently bottomless pit of darkness (a dead orc lowered on their longest rope had failed to touch ground). Crowley felt it was a satisfying turn of events after the whole exploded-chicken thing, and he managed to keep up his good mood for almost ten minutes after walking out of Eric’s flat into the brisk afternoon.

He happened to see his reflection in a shop window, though, and that started him thinking about tonight. Dinner. Aziraphale’s fancy French restaurant.

Crowley was traditionally attractive, and he knew it. He kept up enough on style to come across as disaffected and cool most of the time. Lot of tight black clothes, the subtle snake tattoo on his temple, the very designer sunglasses. The look worked for him still even if he was almost 40, although it helped that he was so damn skinny. You got a free pass on being fashionable if you were skinny. Not supposed to admit it, but there it was.

But he was attractive and cool and fashionable in a very specific way, and that way was _not_ something which would fit in at a fancy fucking French restaurant with _bespoke ten-course meals_.

Aziraphale was a goddamn fossil to most of the world, style-wise, but among those posh bastards? Crowley was willing to bet that nobody would even notice the bow tie. Or the literal fucking antique topcoat. It’d probably be just right for that place.

Soon as Crowley tried to walk in there, though, they’d throw him right back out again.

This was ridiculous. He was ridiculous. He didn’t belong at this restaurant, or in Aziraphale’s world, or in Aziraphale’s _life_. Why wouldn’t the beautiful bastard just get tired of him already?

He’d probably need to dress up. Did he need to dress up? Probably should have thought of that more than three hours ahead of time. Did the restaurant have a dress code? No. Okay. Small favor there.

He should probably still dress just a little less casual. For Aziraphale. To — to try not to embarrass him, at an absolute bare fucking minimum.

Fuck. Fuck. This was not a date. He was not going to treat it like a date. His extremely clever and interesting and beautiful friend had invited him out to celebrate some good news, and said friend was picking up the tab out of the kindness of his soft and generous heart. And that was all.

Crowley could at least change to his good silk shirt, though.

* * *

The bookshop’s sign was turned over to Closed, but Aziraphale had told him that he’d leave the door unlocked. Crowley pushed through and let it slam closed behind him. His mouth opened to call Aziraphale’s name.

Then it just stayed open because it’d forgotten how to close.

Aziraphale must have already been on his way to the door, because he came around one of his cluttered shelves before Crowley could get so much as a syllable out. The lights were low, probably because he was planning to close up, and his curls practically glowed in the dim. His round face held one of those smiles that went all the way up to his eyes. Crinkled them so prettily that Crowley almost wanted to accuse him of doing it on purpose.

He was dressed mostly the same as ever. Mostly. Outdated shoes, safe enough to look at, so Crowley aimed his gaze there for a moment; then there were the carefully-pressed trousers, and the waistcoat, fitted so very well to Aziraphale’s plentiful body, to the fascinating curve of his belly. Light blue button-up shirt beneath that, same as always. Really, the only thing different was the bow tie.

Aziraphale wasn’t wearing one.

His collar was unbuttoned for the very first time in Crowley’s experience. Within it, a tartan ascot circled his neck. It peeped out just so from the open collar, very stylish circa about 1963, which was oddly modern for Aziraphale now that Crowley thought about it, and he _was_ thinking about that ascot, definitely thinking about it quite a bit right now.

The soft fabric draped low around Aziraphale’s neck, and the unbuttoned collar spread brazenly open, and above it all Crowley could see bare pale throat.

It wasn’t that he found Aziraphale in an ascot _sexy_, exactly. That never felt like the right word to describe people, to describe things, except maybe as a joke; because if there was one thing Crowley did _not_ find appealing, it was sex. Might as well call someone trip-to-the-dentist-y. Awkward-holiday-dinner-conversation-with-your-racist-uncle-y. “Sexy”, no. Ugh. No thanks.

So there had to be a better way to say that he very much wanted to look at Aziraphale in an ascot. There was a promise there, in that undone button, that bare sliver of skin. A promise of intimacy. Of so very much more skin under the rest of the buttons, hidden away. An entire subterranean ocean of Aziraphale, waters slow and dark and thick with the taste of minerals. Just a few layers of cloth between the two of them. Remove those, and Crowley could drink him all in. Not touching, not actually _doing_ anything with all that rich drowning bounty. Just looking would be enough. Fill his eyes and his lungs with Aziraphale and die with those four holy syllables on his lips.

He became aware that someone was saying his name.

“Klcht,” he summarized. “Ang — Aziraphale. Hi.” In what felt like a raw, bloody-throated croak: “Nice ascot.”

Something about the lighting made it look like his plump cheeks were already blushing, even before Crowley had said anything. “Thank you.” Then Aziraphale looked him over, just briefly, and the shift of light across his face made it look even pinker. “You... your outfit looks quite handsome as well. There’s no need for formal attire where we’re going, but...”

Crowley shrugged like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t agonized for hours before settling on the dark red silk shirt, and the smart black jacket he’d forgotten he’d had, and the pair of black trousers which left slightly more to the imagination than usual. “Figure the less they can smell working class on me, the better.”

“I don’t...”

“Anyway! Let’s go, yeah? Should we call a cab?”

Aziraphale’s hands fluttered against each other briefly. “I... thought we might walk there together, actually. The reservation isn’t for another hour. And it’s only just in Fitzrovia.”

Crowley winced. “Showed up way too early. Sorry, I must’ve gotten the time wrong.”

“No. You had it right.” Aziraphale’s eyes — hazel, today, edging towards brown — seemed to look for his through the dark glasses. “I asked you to come early.”

Crowley mumbled silently.

“I thought that we could spend a bit more time together that way.” Aziraphale’s face fell a little. “I shouldn’t have, really. It was terribly presumptuous of me.”

“No, it.” Crowley willed his lungs to not collapse. “It’s fine. Walk. Yeah. Let’s walk.”

“You really don’t mind?”

And he said it on purpose, this time. Hopelessly on purpose. “Angel. I _want_ to spend time with you. You’re, you’re my —”

A hundred different words crashed together on his tongue, and none of them were the right one.

“Friend.” It hurt, how incomplete that was, but he said it again anyway. “You’re my friend. Yeah?”

Aziraphale’s face did something complicated, a smile passing over it quickly, replaced with something more pensive. He wasn’t blushing, though. At least Crowley had managed to do something right for once.

“I would be honored to consider us friends, my very dear fellow.” He brightened for a moment. “I’ve... become awfully fond of you, after all.”

Crowley closed his eyes. Fond. Aziraphale was _fond_ of him. And it wasn’t _attracted to_, and it certainly wasn’t —

— wasn’t _in love with_ —

But it was something, wasn’t it? Aziraphale was fond of him. Awfully fond. Thought being his friend was something to feel _honored_ about.

Aziraphale wanted him around.

There was definitely something in that thought, and it made him open his eyes again, grinning down at Aziraphale with something that wasn’t exactly happiness, but could at least see it somewhere on the horizon.

“‘Fond’,” he repeated, raising one eyebrow. “God, you sound like someone’s maiden aunt. But I like you too.” 

The words slipped out, easy as anything. Aziraphale did blush that time, dropping his eyes to the floor, although Crowley could see a tiny smile ghost across his mouth. 

He hooked a thumb over his shoulder, back toward the door. “So. Let’s go for a stroll, huh?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of the horror movies mentioned here are ones that I personally enjoy. I love horror in general, even though usually after I watch a new-to-me spoopy flick, I have to sleep with my light on for the next few nights. It's complicated.
> 
> **Please note that the update schedule for this week is different!** I will be updating Monday, Wednesday, and Friday (almost always somewhere between 8 and 9 in the morning, Central US time).
> 
> If you want to be aware of stuff like this ahead of time, you can always follow [my Tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com). I try to keep to Good Omens things there, but non-GO things are tagged as, appropriately enough, "not Good Omens". [This is the tag for this AU.](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/tagged/ifof%3A-the-human-au-for-some-reason)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the fancy French restaurant, Crowley and Aziraphale have a serious conversation. Then Crowley hears some gossip about that one bookshop owner, you know, the one who's also a mobster, from one of his gaming pals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter-specific warning notes:**
> 
>   * Reference to general societal fatphobia
>   * The word "fat" is used, but never, ever negatively, because this is the Soft Zone(TM)
>   * One statement which is, I think, only very mildly homophobic, but I have never been a target of homophobia because I tend to be read as straight, so I could be super wrong and if so then I'm sorry
> 
> **I have applied a fancy work skin to this fic**, so if you're overriding work skins, you might want to, uh, un-override or whatever. I promise it's light styling. Just a bit of spot color, margin-fiddling, and changing the font to monospace, all for a small portion of the overall text.

Aziraphale was in his element at the posh French restaurant, of course. He greeted the host like they were old friends, and when the host muttered something back to him they both laughed — Aziraphale’s high and clear, a sound which Crowley had already memorized. They were led to a small table in a nicely secluded corner of the room.

“Are you just a regular at every restaurant in London, Aziraphale? Is that how this works?”

He’d asked it as a joke, grinning, but Aziraphale’s eyes reflected sudden hurt back at him. One hand drifted protectively to his middle, to the spreading curve of him under his waistcoat. “I do happen to enjoy fine dining, yes. But I hardly visit every restaurant.”

Fuck. Crowley hadn’t put his foot in it like this in — in ever, really. Not since the Clover Cafe. Not since Aziraphale’s muffin-based charity, the thing that had started this, had started... all of whatever this was.

He wondered how much of the rest of Aziraphale’s life was a minefield, never knowing when someone would make a stupid remark or sling a cheap insult. And here Crowley was, bringing the minefield to what was supposed to be a celebration. Like an idiot.

“No, I — everyone just loves you, Aziraphale.” He hoped the catch in his throat wasn’t audible. “Everywhere we go, you’re friends with the staff, and, and you’ve got all these little injokes with them, and. They all love you.”

The shielding hand dropped away. “Oh. Well. I do frequent a few specific locations, I suppose.” Aziraphale’s pretty face smoothed out, the wounded look in his eyes replaced with a small smile. “I’m sure everyone doesn’t _love_ me, though.”

“They should.”

Aziraphale blushed a delicate pink, dipping his eyes down to the table. “I...” He looked up again at Crowley, just for an instant, and the blush deepened. “Thank you.”

“Yeah.”

Above Aziraphale’s open collar and ascot, below his soft double chin, was that bare expanse of pale delicious throat. It moved, now, as Aziraphale swallowed.

Crowley watched it without breathing.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, took a deep breath, two; then he smiled up at Crowley, shy but warm. “I realize,” he said quietly, “that I’ve asked you to a place rather out of your comfort zone, and I’m very grateful you were willing to take a chance on it. The food really is quite excellent here, though — I do hope you enjoy it — and the staff is... friendly. Non-judgmental.”

And Crowley had only just figured out lungs again, just gotten his started back up, when Aziraphale reached out his hand. Gave Crowley’s hand, lying on the table, a single, feather-light pat.

“If you do find yourself uncomfortable at all, though — we’ll leave at once. That very instant.”

“Gh. Oh. Okay.” Crowley looked down at his own hand, at the spot where Aziraphale had touched him. 

They didn’t touch. Never had, not on purpose. Occasionally their fingers might brush against each other as they passed something between them, a glass of something, a bottle; and Crowley would relish even that brief contact, while longing to be able to just take those hands, to just hold them in his own. There was never anything more. Not until this.

He might’ve just stared heart-eyed at his own hand all night if their waiter hadn’t eventually shown up; but then, of course, Aziraphale knew him, greeting him by name. Of course they immediately started up a conversation. Aziraphale made a joke that got the guy laughing so hard, he actually had to lean on the table until he’d recovered.

“Your extremely hilarious friend here knows the score here backwards and forwards, so you probably won’t have any questions for me.” He handed what was presumably one of the restaurant’s eight menus to Crowley. “But if you do, just wave me down. Drinks meanwhile?”

Aziraphale looked over at Crowley. “If I may...?”

“Sure?”

“The Veuve Clicquot, if you still have it, please.”

The waiter nodded. “The 2006?”

“Yes, that would be splendid.”

Aziraphale beamed as the man walked off, then seemed to notice Crowley’s raised eyebrow. “Champagne,” he added. “An appropriate vintage for tonight’s celebration, I think.”

“Celebration. Right.” Crowley slouched artfully in his chair. “Your Jules Vernes.”

“Exactly!” Aziraphale looked oddly pleased, as though he hadn’t expected Crowley to remember that detail. “Three different first editions, in splendid condition for the price. I wanted to offer more, honestly, but the sale was through an agent who didn’t seem set up for that sort of thing.”

Crowley felt his mouth curve without him having to do anything. “Course you wanted to offer more. God, you’re ridiculous. Lucky you don’t have to earn money to keep your bookshop afloat.”

Aziraphale made an aggrieved little _hmph_ noise. “It would only have been fair!”

“Ridiculous.”

“Crowley, I’m not some sort of — of hustler.”

“Of hustler!” Crowley barked the words in a laugh, and when Aziraphale glared at him it only made the whole thing funnier. “‘S about the last thing I’d accuse you of being, is a hustler. You’re too bloody good for this _world_.”

The laugh emptied out in his throat. Aziraphale had turned pink again, of course, same as every other time Crowley said anything that could be read as flirting, but this time he didn’t look away. His eyes stayed on Crowley’s sunglasses.

“You...” Aziraphale placed both his hands on the table. Flattened them against the tablecloth, tense and still. “You say things like that sometimes. Very nice things.”

Crowley shook his head. “Not nice. I don’t do nice, not my thing, ‘s a, a four-letter wo —”

“You pay me compliments, then.”

Crowley snapped his mouth shut.

“Sometimes very...” Aziraphale did look down, just for a fraction of a second, but then his eyes locked on Crowley’s face again. “Sometimes ones that seem very... affectionate. Very earnest.”

Maybe this was it. The moment where Crowley finally managed to free Aziraphale from himself. And it would hurt, it would fucking kill him, but then he could move on and get used to being alone again.

Aziraphale’s cheeks were still pink. His gaze still didn’t waver. “I need to know that you mean them.”

“Th... that I...”

“That you aren’t merely having a joke at my expense.”

“That I _what_.” Crowley gaped at him, shocked back into actual coherence. “Why the fuck would you think I’d ever do a shit thing like that?”

Aziraphale’s mouth tightened for a second before he replied. “Experience.”

“Oh.” Crowley blinked. “Oh, God, Aziraphale. I —”

“I am aware of my foibles. Of what I...” The hands on the tablecloth moved in stiff circles for a moment. “I don’t have any illusions about myself. And I value you far too much to have to be suspicious of your — your motives. So I need to ask.”

His hands curled up into loose fists.

“I need to hear you say that you mean them.”

Had Crowley really thought it would hurt to hear Aziraphale tell him to stop it, to fuck off, to quit hanging around like a lovestruck idiot? Oh, that was funny. Hilarious. That wouldn’t have hurt at all. That would’ve been just wonderful compared to this. Because the most clever and wonderful and beautiful man in Soho maybe didn’t believe he was any of those things. Maybe had been told in the past that he was anything but.

Probably had been told that. Probably a lot. Because Aziraphale was ridiculous, was a goddamned old fogey already with his fussy manners and his antique clothes and his complete and utter lack of musical taste. Aziraphale was fat, not just “soft” or “chubby” but outright _fat_, what people meant when they screeched about Epidemics, about Someone Think Of The Children. And people were idiots. Couldn’t see what was right in front of them, that all those things about Aziraphale just made him perfect. Made him exactly what he should be.

None of which Crowley could actually say. No. God and Satan and everything else, would he ever bollocks it up if he tried.

“Aziraphale —”

Fuck it. This was worth it.

Crowley pulled off his sunglasses, folded them up neatly in his hands, then met Aziraphale’s eyes.

“I mean them, angel. I always —” _Have. Do. _“— will.”

He had no idea what Aziraphale would see in his eyes. Could only pray that they would show how completely, how utterly he needed to be believed. His heart was barely beating, all fast shallow taps against his ribs. He was still breathing, at least, whenever he remembered to suck in another shaking lungful.

Of course he’d always meant them. He’d never been able to stop them spilling out, every stupid flirtation, and every word of it had been dragged straight from his useless idiot heart. He’d always meant every nice, affectionate, earnest thing he’d ever said about Aziraphale. Still did. Always would. As long as Aziraphale would have him around.

There were tears in his eyes, he realized. They blurred Aziraphale into soft glowing shards when he blinked.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said quietly. 

Crowley scrubbed at his eyes, grimacing in annoyance. “S-sorry. Stupid of me.”

“May I... may I give you a compliment in return, my dear fellow?” A pause. “It is as... sincere as I believe yours to have been.”

“Sure.” Crowley cleared his throat. “Fine.”

“Your eyes are very beautiful.” Aziraphale didn’t blush at all when he said it, and Crowley had no idea whether that made his own complete obliteration better or worse. “Thank you for letting me see them.”

“W. Welcome.”

Aziraphale smiled at him. It warmed the rubble that was left of him like the first sunrise after the apocalypse.

“You’re welcome,” Crowley clarified, before fumbling the glasses back onto his face.

The silence didn’t go on too long before their waiter finally returned with the champagne. Only about a million years. Crowley’s crumbling remains had long since sprung up into forest by the time they started talking again.

* * *

Back when Crowley’s current gaming mates had first gotten together, Eric had tried to get a Discord server going for them. He’d probably figured they could discuss sessions, coordinate upcoming play times, reasonable and grown-up things like that.

In practice, the server had pretty much devolved into just Ty and Nattie swapping memes and cute animal pictures back and forth, along with the latest Soho-area gossip (Crowley knew more about the local clubbing scene than he ever wanted to).

When the notification popped in Thursday morning, he almost marked it read without looking.

**NatBat**  
_Omg guys!! Remember we tried to go to the mob bookshop but it was closed??_

Crowley paused. There wasn’t anything wrong with Aziraphale’s shop, was there? Or with Aziraphale? He’d been there just Tuesday, a few days after the French restaurant — Aziraphale had closed up ridiculously early for them to go to lunch, then walk back to the shop and spend several extremely fucking wonderful hours talking. He’d opened up a bottle of wine which tasted less like rot than Crowley had expected from past experience. 

The wine had made Aziraphale a little more expressive, by the end of the bottle. A little more giggly. His cheeks had flushed with it, constant without Crowley having to do or say anything, and he had been beautiful, beautiful.

Now, he found himself waiting while Nattie typed for several centuries. 

**NatBat**  
_Big big news about the owner!!!_

Crowley’s limbs went cold.

**Tylarrr**  
_its not that hes in the mob because he isn’t in the mob_

**NatBat**  
_He is shut up_  
_Anyway_  
_Apparently he has a HOT BOYFRIEND_

The words didn’t really make sense at first. Aziraphale couldn’t — or, not that he _couldn’t_, he was so amazing, so fucking stunning, that of _course_ he could, only — only why hadn’t he mentioned it — when had he —

Crowley had the flat to himself this morning. There was no one to see him as he slumped onto the sofa, stared at his phone, and waited for Nattie’s eternal typing. Watched Ty respond meanwhile.

**Tylarrr**  
_no fuckign way nat_  
_i mean yeah_  
_he’s obviously gay_  
_but there’s no way he has a boyfriend_

**NatBat**  
_Bharti told me she saw them walking together and like gazing lovingly into each others eyes and acting all romantic and shit. And it was definitely mob owner guy and the other guy was super hot_  
_I wonder if hot guy knows his boyfriend is a criminal like should someone tell him_

He was going to cry. It wasn’t coming yet, but he was familiar enough with this numb sensation to know what would follow it, minutes or hours from now. Not that he had any right to feel like this, not like he’d even told Aziraphale that he...

Well. It was too late now, wasn’t it?

But when the hell had this happened? Why hadn’t Aziraphale said anything? They were friends, at least. Crowley should have rated hearing about something like this.

**NatBat**  
_She said she thought they were going to just stop and make out right there on the pavement and im just_  
_Oml_

He rattled off the question before he could stop himself.

**crowley is Bored With You(tm)**  
_when was this_

**NatBat**  
_Tuesday_

Wait.

**crowley is Bored With You(tm)**  
_When tuesday_

**NatBat**  
_Like noon idk she was going to lunch_

...wait.

**Tylarrr**  
_shes making this up nat nobody would date that bowtie_

Crowley flipped off Ty’s name on the screen without thinking.

Nattie had about a million friends around central London, and the rest of the group had never met most of them. Crowley had definitely never met this Bharti. So if she’d seen Aziraphale walking with some bloke Tuesday lunchtime... someone traditionally attractive, someone who apparently looked at Aziraphale like he wanted to kiss him right there...

She wouldn’t have recognized him. Wouldn’t have said “oh, that’s just Crowley”.

A kind of full-body shudder went through him, like he’d barely missed some kind of terrible fate. Being hit by a train, maybe.

It was him. He was the hot boyfriend.

He scrolled up again. _gazing lovingly into each others eyes_, Nattie had written. Each other’s.

So Crowley’s feelings were all over his fucking sleeve, from the sound of it, and wasn’t that just a kick in the teeth to learn, that he was that obvious to even a perfect stranger. Great. Fantastic. So much for his cool act.

On the other hand, that perfect stranger had read the situation as mutual. Had looked at him and Aziraphale together, and had said _yes, these two feel the same. This gorgeous fat angel of a bookseller definitely wants to kiss this sunglasses-wearing git_.

He didn’t feel numb at all anymore. Didn’t want to cry, either.

Aziraphale _valued_ him. Thought he was worth having around. That was something he was still getting used to, since Saturday. The idea of _being_ worth having around. He still didn’t agree, but he understood that Aziraphale at least currently felt differently.

He wanted to be worth it, though. Wanted to be someone who deserved being in people’s lives. Someone who — and this was a very nice idea to consider, especially after what he’d just learned — who maybe could be a gorgeous fat angel’s boyfriend, someday. If the gorgeous fat angel was interested.

There was something he’d think about, sometimes, when he was feeling temporarily more human. He’d hit up Google, read online reviews, maybe note down a few phone numbers. The last time, he’d even gotten as far as making one call, even if he did hang up as soon as the automated menu answered. In the end he always backed off again. It was too much work. No point to any of it.

But things had been so damn good lately, and Crowley didn’t want to go back to the not-good. He _liked_ actually enjoying the movie nights with An and Liz. He _liked_ feeling optimistic about the Bentley. He liked talking to Warlock and still feeling mostly himself afterwards. He... okay, he still didn’t like much about the job, but it wasn’t terrible, and it really did pay damn well.

He liked Aziraphale. And being around Aziraphale. And how Aziraphale made him feel.

Maybe he could actually finish a phone call this time. Do a little more than that, even. He could kind of see a point now.

He closed out of Discord and opened up a browser window instead.

_therapists soho_, he typed into the search bar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week I will be updating Monday and Thursday again! Postings still almost always happen somewhere between 8 and 9 in the morning, Central US time.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley's life progresses on a number of fronts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter-specific warning notes:** Reference to the experience of feeling pressured into sex, although none of that happens in the text.

“I can’t believe I _trusted_ you! It’s like I didn’t learn anything!”

“Wh —” Crowley dodged a hurled pillow.

“But I did, and now I’ll never sleep again thanks to you!”

“Look, let’s be reasonable here —”

“You lied to me, Crowley! You lied right to my face!”

“_I didn’t actually think Night Of The Living Dead was that scary!_”

Crowley was hiding just outside the living room doorway, now, not sure Liz had any more projectiles handy but not taking any chances. He could hear her in there, breathing raggedly. Then she let out a loud groan, and there was the sound of a body hurling itself onto the sofa.

“Feeling better?” asked a dry voice.

“Maybe,” Liz muttered.

Crowley decided that it was probably safe for him, if Liz was responding to Anathema again. He slunk around the corner, hands out and empty. “Look. I admit that I might’ve glossed over the details on this one...”

Anathema raised an eyebrow at him from her seat on the sofa. Liz was curled up next to her, glaring at Crowley from beneath Anathema’s sheltering arm.

“...maybe on several of them. But they’re all good! I did pick actual classics!”

“And to be fair, we did technically ask for this,” Anathema said. “And Crowley is, well...”

“_Awful_.”

“He’s Crowley.” Anathema smoothed Liz’s hair back from her face. “And you don’t always think things through quite all the way before you jump in. Remember that time you started talking to that weird guy with the signs and ended up hunting witches with him?”

Liz sighed. “He was very convincing.”

“Mmmhmm.”

Crowley crept a little closer. Anathema was still stroking Liz’s hair, and that seemed to be calming her down enough that maybe he could try to apologize properly. “I should’ve, I dunno, prepared you a little better. I guess. I can’t suggest _completely_ not-scary horror movies, might as well be watching an action flick at that point, but...” He scrubbed at the back of his neck. “I should not have told you that The Shining was mostly about a cute little kid.”

“It _wasn’t_,” Liz replied.

“Yeah. I’m sorry, Lizard. I won’t do it again.”

The nickname got a little smile out of her, anyway. When she sat up a little straighter, patting the empty sofa next to her, Crowley was more than happy to slouch over there.

“So,” Anathema said, as Crowley slung his arm around Liz from the other side, “are we done with the movies? Do you want to rewatch The Princess Bride tonight?”

Liz frowned. “No. I want to actually watch _one_ scary thing all the way through.”

“Sounds like you get one last chance to not be an arse, Crowley.”

He looked up at the ceiling for a moment. “Okay. How about — look, there’s one that has ghosts and stuff, and it’s damn spooky. Got some scares, won’t lie about that. But the ghosts aren’t really angry or anything. They don’t want to hurt anyone. And I think it’s more sad, in the end.” The ceiling continued to be very interesting. “Made me cry a little.”

“That might be okay.”

“‘S called The Orphanage.” Crowley wriggled around on the sofa until his legs were sprawled across both women’s laps. “Really good. Spanish. Lots of sad ghosts.”

Anathema gave him a look. “You know I have to deal with crying Liz same as I’d have to deal with scared Liz, right?”

“I won’t cry!”

“Sure,” Crowley said, hoisting an eyebrow. “But if you do, I definitely warned you.”

Anathema looked at Liz, then pulled her closer and shrugged. “Okay, okay. We’ll watch the sad ghosts.”

* * *

“I can’t believe you’re _both_ crying,” Anathema said as the credits rolled.

“‘M not,” Crowley muttered. “I just got something in both my eyes. And both of Liz’s eyes.”

“He did,” agreed Liz. “He’s _awful_.”

Anathema sighed.

* * *

The texts between Crowley and Aziraphale continued as October lengthened, in between walks and lunches and wine-fueled back room conversations. The first time Aziraphale replied to Crowley’s _see you then_ with three whole smiley faces, it put him on the fucking moon for the rest of the day.

He’d learned a number of things about Aziraphale by now. His name really was Aziraphale Fell, for instance, although it actually hadn’t been his parents’ fault.

_I took on the old family surname when it became apparent I was going to inherit the shop._ This had been late one night, Crowley already in bed but not wanting to sleep, because that meant putting the phone down. _My maternal grandparents were the previous owners, and they never minded the name being lost, but I rather like the idea of continuing tradition._

Crowley had learned about the name, and a fair bit about Aziraphale’s childhood (raised by his grandparents amongst the stacks when he wasn’t at some fancy boarding school; no wonder he was such a bookworm). He’d learned that Aziraphale had family out Oxford way, and a godson the same age as Warlock, who he visited a few times a year. Various friends in the antique book business who he talked to via mostly email. He knew Aziraphale’s favorite color and favorite season and favorite kind of ice cream (and he was already planning to get him plenty of vanillas-with-a-flake once the weather warmed up again next year). Some of this new knowledge came from texts, but a lot of it was gained face-to-face.

Crowley was starting to spend more and more of his time off from work with Aziraphale. Never the whole day, but sometimes pretty close — one time he’d stopped by early for their lunch, then they’d decided to come back to the shop afterwards, and the conversation had gone on until two in the morning. Aziraphale had actually offered his sofa to Crowley for the night, and Crowley had damn near taken him up on it.

He wasn’t ready to stay the night with someone yet, though. Not even when the offer was for a dusty sofa and a tartan blanket. Still too much hidden meaning for him in that kind of request.

If the most beautiful man in Soho were to ask him to stay with... with that other meaning... he wasn’t sure he’d be able to say no. He hated the idea of what he’d have to do, but if it meant getting to hold Aziraphale... getting to kiss him...

Aziraphale didn’t ask, though. It was just the offer of the sofa. When Crowley turned him down, he maybe looked mildly disappointed.

“You must text me as soon as you’re home, then. I won’t be able to rest until I know you’re safe.”

“‘S only muggers every _third_ alley, Aziraphale. It’ll be fine.”

But he’d done it, of course. Taken a picture of his room at the flat, his little collection of potted plants by the window and the desk he mostly used to throw junk on, and sent it to Aziraphale. _see? I survived. Youre stuck with me for one more day anyway_

_More than that, I hope_ popped in right away. _Good night, Crowley._

Crowley’s throat tightened. “Oh,” he said out loud, almost too small to be a word at all. His reply came slowly from his shaking hands. _night angel. Sleep well_

Three smiley faces back.

Crowley pressed the side of his fist to his mouth. Breathed very carefully and slowly until the thing in his chest stopped aching.

* * *

In between work and Aziraphale, Crowley had still found time to make some calls. He’d had a few mildly awkward initial conversations with four of the names on his list, and a really awful one with a fifth. After a few days he’d made his choice. His hands only shook a little as he called back for an actual appointment. He barely even dropped his phone at all.

Three weeks in, he wasn’t sure if he’d picked the right therapist, but he at least hadn’t picked the _horribly wrong_ one. Lara was a good ten years younger than him, and almost as sarcastic as Anathema, but she could throw around buzzwords like “culturally competent” like a pro.

Which she was, obviously. Still. She specialized in working with queer patients, and that seemed like a good start.

“Look, there’s... there’s this bloke.” That was how he’d started the first session. Staring at the carpet, feeling like the world’s biggest idiot. “And I told you on the phone, right, I’m asexual, and I’m trans. So. Like. That’s two strikes right there, wanting to be in a — in a relationship with anyone. Just statistically speaking.”

His new therapist had made a noncommittal noise.

“But I’m a fucked-up broken mess, too, and that’s something I maybe can change. Something that I’m actually interested in changing.” He slumped back into a different position on the sofa and forced himself to meet Lara’s eyes. “So! I basically want to be less broken so maybe I’ll be worth him falling in love with.”

She’d raised an eyebrow. “Okaaay. That’s kind of a lot.”

“Yeah. Well.” Crowley had shrugged. Tried on a smirk. “I’m kind of a lot.”

“Everyone is. Believe me, I wouldn’t have a job otherwise.” She’d tapped her pen against the notebook in her lap. “Let’s unpack some of that...”

The second session had mostly been him listing off reasons why everyone he knew would probably abandon him any day now, and Lara calmly poking holes in every one of those reasons. He’d left angry and frustrated, and definitely sure that he was going to cancel next week and also fire her.

The next week he’d come back and it had mostly been the same.

He hadn’t exactly thought this would be an instant fix or anything like that. Still, he was spending an unexpected amount of time yelling at his plants.

* * *

Aziraphale had invited Crowley to lunch at a poke restaurant over in Mayfair. It’d actually taken more than .2 seconds for Crowley to agree, to not suggest something else. A walk in St. James’s Park, maybe, or just some time together at the shop. On the one hand, all their lunches and dinners out were making it harder to save for the Bentley. On the other hand...

He’d pictured Aziraphale’s round pretty face, lit up in joy as he nibbled on some tasty morsel. Thought about his belly full and content at the end of the meal. One (1) happy angel, waiting just there, a day and twenty-odd hours in Crowley’s future. Easy decision.

_absolutely_, he’d texted back. _meet at yours, walk over together?_

_Of course. I will never turn down the extra time with you._

The afternoon was cold and windy as Crowley set out for the shop two days later, and by the time he was most of the way there he was almost wishing he’d worn something warmer. Almost. This outfit didn’t do much for the weather, but it looked really fucking good on him. He’d been hit on twice just on his way over. And looking really fucking good for Aziraphale, well... it was something he wanted to do, today. That was all.

Unfortunately, when he actually found Aziraphale (fussing amongst his books, the waistcoat an embroidered number today, the bow tie a matching soft gold), the first reaction he got was a dismayed cluck. “Oh, Crowley, you’re half-frozen! I know perfectly well you own a jacket; I’ve _seen_ it. You’re going to make yourself ill going about like this.”

“Glad I look such a mess,” Crowley grumbled, hands in pockets so they’d maybe warm up a bit. “‘S why I come over here, for the ego boost.”

Aziraphale’s eyes flickered over him, just briefly, before dropping to the book still in his hand. He turned back to the shelf. “You look... you don’t look a mess, my d...” The book seemed to give him trouble for a moment, refusing to slot back into its space on the shelf. “There. Only, I worry about you, is all.”

He looked at Crowley again, then seemed to reach a decision. “Come with me.”

He headed toward the front of the shop, and Crowley wandered behind, feeling like a half-frozen idiot. He only watched at first as Aziraphale stopped in front of the coat rack by the door and pulled something down.

Aziraphale turned and held it out to him. A firm little line had appeared between his eyebrows, matching the set of his mouth.

“I insist you have _one_ piece of warm clothing at the very least.”

“Wh — oh, come on. Aziraphale...” It was a scarf, he realized. Long and fluffy and soft-looking, a sort of golden-tan color, and completely the opposite of Crowley’s entire carefully-maintained aesthetic.

Aziraphale looked at him.

“Nope.” He gave the scarf a death glare, but it didn’t seem to do anything. “I’ll be all right. Just lemme warm up here a few minutes is all.”

“Please, Crowley. Just one small concession to the weather.” Aziraphale’s expression softened as he spoke, turning into something Crowley had last seen in the park, when Aziraphale had convinced him to come to his French restaurant with him. The line between his eyebrows smoothed out as they climbed his forehead; his mouth formed a tiny frown; and as he tipped his head down, looking up at Crowley with gently pleading eyes, his double chin deepened in that _way_...

“F-fine.” Crowley actually felt his face getting warm, and how was that for a change? Usually he was the one making Aziraphale go pink with humiliation over his stupid little flirting comments. Now it was Crowley being undone by a pout and a folded chin. God. Aziraphale could probably have anything he wanted from anyone, just by doing that. He obviously didn’t know, or he’d be so deep in admirers that he’d never have to buy his own scones again.

_You’re so beautiful that it’s not even __fair_, he didn’t say.

He actually didn’t say anything, do anything. Didn’t even take the scarf he’d agreed to. After enough of this, Aziraphale got that determined look again.

“Well, here then,” he said. “Hold still.”

Crowley didn’t understand what he meant by that at first. Then he did, very suddenly, because Aziraphale stepped forward until their bodies nearly touched.

He reached up, standing on tiptoes, and wrapped the scarf loosely around Crowley’s neck. He seemed to concentrate very closely on the task. Like the exact drape of fabric over Crowley’s shoulders was of grave importance. He watched his own hands, pulling and adjusting, as he worked. Crowley closed his eyes as plump fingers brushed against the nape of his neck.

Aziraphale’s round belly didn’t touch Crowley’s body. Not quite. Even when he huffed a final breath, bouncing once on his toes before dropping down again, there was no contact at all.

“That’s better. Now I’m willing to let you go outside again.”

Crowley nuzzled his face into the soft length, breath stopping for an instant as he realized what it smelled like. He asked for an answer he already had. “Where’d this thing come from, anyway?”

“It’s mine.” Aziraphale’s eyes fastened themselves on the scarf. He was still standing close. Crowley could just reach out now and hold him, if he wanted. Have to stretch a bit to get all of him, maybe. But once he’d pulled them up against each other so he could feel the beat of Aziraphale’s heart in his own chest, there wouldn’t be any problem at all.

Aziraphale stepped back again.

“Or it _was_ mine. I’m making a present of it.” His cheeks dimpled in a smile. “Happy birthday, Crowley. Early or late, you decide.”

Crowley breathed in deep, letting the ghost of Aziraphale’s cologne fill his lungs. “Late. Means you still have to get me something next year.”

Aziraphale looked at him for a moment, the smile slipping quietly away. He didn’t say anything; although it seemed almost as though he wanted to, as though something was hovering just on the other side of his softly open lips. At last those lips quirked up into a grin. “Bit greedy of you, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Crowley buried his face even further into the scarf. “Get your coat already. You can mock me on the way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please come back on Thursday! I promise that you will see what happens next.
> 
> (I saw The Orphanage on a list of Scariest Movies Ever recently, which... surprised me, since I definitely was more sad than scared after finishing it.)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley learns something about Aziraphale's understanding of their friendship, and then finds himself about to say something he can't take back once said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter-specific warning notes:**
> 
>   * Internalized transphobia and gender dysphoria
>   * Reference to fatphobic comments, though none are in the text
>   * The word "fat" is used, but never, ever negatively, because this is the Soft Zone(TM)
> 
> I love you, my fat people, and my trans people, and my fat trans people. You're all beautiful and important and I want very much for the world to be kind to you today.

Crowley probably looked like an idiot, his sleek black outfit topped with the fluffy scarf, but he found that he didn’t care. Aziraphale smiled at him just the same. Laughed at his jokes as they walked, cracked a few of his own. Their hands swung close once or twice, and he thought about just taking Aziraphale’s. Those pudgy fingers would fit wonderfully between his own bony knuckles, perfectly filling in the gaps between them with soft warmth. He was sure of it.

Both his hands were still empty, though, and crammed back in his pockets against the cold, when someone said something very rude to Aziraphale as they passed. Just some guy in a fancy coat. He came up behind them on the pavement, shoved between them without warning, and snarled something behind him as he went. Had disappeared around the next corner by the time Crowley’d processed it.

The comment had very clearly been directed at Aziraphale. No one would think of using those kinds of words to describe Crowley’s skinny body. And yes, some of it was technically accurate, but in that tone of voice...

Crowley stopped. His hands curled into fists on their own, pulling out of his pockets, tense and shaking at his sides.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale had stopped too, and was looking at him in obvious confusion. “What’s the matter?”

“Wh — didn’t you hear —” Crowley gestured in no particular direction. “That knobhead just insulted you!”

Aziraphale blinked, then nodded. “Ah. Yes, he did. It’s not a problem, really. Shall we go on?”

“Not a — not a problem, he says! Not a problem!” He grabbed at his own hair, then flung his arms out again. “If I wasn’t sure he’d turn me into a smear on the pavement, I’d go after him and kick his arse! You don’t just — just —”

“Crowley.”

“What,” he muttered.

Aziraphale looked around. “You’re making a scene. I appreciate your concern, but it really is no matter.” He sighed, looking directly into Crowley’s sunglasses. “I have been used to it for a very long time.”

“Used to it,” Crowley repeated, feeling his heart break.

“It doesn’t mean anything, you know. Not coming from a stranger like that.” He smiled, then — a reassuring little smile, like he was worried about _Crowley_, like it wasn’t him who needed reassurance, needed to know how amazing he was — 

“Fine,” Crowley grumbled. “But you didn’t deserve it.” 

Aziraphale started walking again, and Crowley followed, taking up his usual place on the left. He was still angry — furious, really — but there was that broken throb in his chest now, too. Aziraphale was used to it. Somehow, that was the worst part. Those kinds of insults were commonplace for him. Didn’t even warrant mentioning.

At least, not when it was just some random knobhead. _Not coming from a stranger like that_. Which suggested that it could matter if it came from someone he trusted. Maybe cared about.

Crowley had put his foot in it once, said something unkind-sounding the day of the blueberry muffin, a million years and four months ago. Aziraphale had given him a sharp look then. Calm enough, but ready to show the edge of his tongue if necessary. 

He’d done it again just a few weeks ago. The fancy French restaurant. Aziraphale’s celebration. There had been no edge to Aziraphale that time, no sharp look. He’d put a hand to his belly like he’d thought it needed protecting. He’d looked at Crowley with wounded, wary eyes.

_It doesn’t mean anything. Not coming from a stranger._

Crowley felt a bit like he’d been handed five pounds of gunpowder, all of a sudden. Been pointed to Aziraphale. _There he is, you know what to do_, someone might have said. _You know exactly how to hurt him, now_.

He looked over at Aziraphale as they walked. Chatting happily about something, blue eyes as bright as they ever were. Fat and perfect. Absolutely perfect.

“Hey,” he said. Interrupting mid-sentence, but there were too many words in his throat, and he had to get rid of some of them or else he’d drown. “‘M glad you’re my friend. Okay?” He looked down at the pavement scrolling by beneath his feet. “I. Like having you around.”

He didn’t look at Aziraphale, so he didn’t know what expression went with his response. It was immediate, though, and the words were soft but sure. “I’m glad as well. Very, very much so.”

“‘S good then.”

Aziraphale laughed quietly. “Rather. It would be awkward if my best friend had grown tired of me.”

“Your.” Crowley swallowed. “Best friends. Okay. Sure.”

“And my best friend,” Aziraphale went on, rummaging in a pocket of his overcoat, “is going to be letting me treat him today, incidentally. Because that way —”

Crowley raised his head, watching him hold something up with a flourish. 

“— I get to claim his meal for my punch card.”

Aziraphale positively beamed at him, but there was just a little bit of a wicked glint to his eye. Crowley grinned back. Couldn’t help it.

“Oh, the truth comes out! No wonder you invited me. Means to an end, I am.”

“A means to an end.” Aziraphale’s voice was breezy as he examined the card. “Only three more punches after today and I get one free, you know. Are you available again, hmm, say Wednesday?”

Crowley laughed, actually threw his head back and laughed. When he staggered a little he caught himself with a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder. They both stopped, Aziraphale’s high laughter joining Crowley’s, and the hand didn’t move until they started walking again.

* * *

“I feel like this was just deconstructed sushi.”

Aziraphale gaped at him as though he’d committed blasphemy.

“You’ve got your raw fish... got your rice...” Crowley pushed his fork through the remains of his meal. “Mine even had seaweed.”

“Wh — _deconstructed sushi_?! Even putting aside the very different flavor palates between the two, the idea that you could classify traditional poke as _sushi_ when it plainly shares its roots with the general class of Polynesian fish salads...”

Crowley kept a very straight face as Aziraphale continued, letting all his delight stay hidden behind his glasses. He’d hit Google when they were planning this lunch. He knew perfectly well what poke was. But he’d had a feeling that Aziraphale wouldn’t be able to let an incorrect statement about something as important as food pass by, and he’d been right.

Eventually there was a lull in the flow of words. Crowley let himself smile then, felt it spread soft and tender across his face, and wondered how the fuck he’d managed so long without this adorable idiot in his life.

“...and you’re just trying to get a rise out of me, aren’t you.” Aziraphale’s mouth formed a frown, but his eyes refused to play along. “You’re terrible, Crowley, really. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“You.” He slouched into a new position, one arm sprawled across the table, the other hand propping up his grin. “Just now.”

“Yes, and I’m sure I don’t like it one bit.”

Crowley grinned even wider. “You dooo.”

Something shifted.

Aziraphale’s eyes looked for his, the laughter gone out of them suddenly, replaced with something that Crowley didn’t dare to put a name on. But it ached, that look. It ached in Crowley’s chest.

Aziraphale slid one plump hand across the table until his fingertips nearly brushed Crowley’s own.

“Yes,” he murmured. “I suppose I do.”

Crowley felt his breathing go slow and ragged.

“Angel,” he said.

Aziraphale pulled the hand back, not quickly, but with a deliberate movement that ended with both hands in his lap, hidden beneath the table. His voice was very quiet. “They have an excellent shaved ice here, if you were interested in staying for dessert. Or we could be on our way.”

“I’m interested in — staying.” Crowley pulled in a breath so big it hurt. “For the thing. We should — should get it, if you want it.”

Aziraphale was still looking at him. How was he supposed to be able to speak with Aziraphale _looking_ at him? He wasn’t even blushing, no, that was Crowley, Crowley could feel the heat spreading across his face like he was looking at the beautiful round sun — 

“You should have the things you want,” he said miserably. “All of them. Th — that’s all.”

Aziraphale still didn’t blush. Still didn’t look away.

“That’s very kind of you to say, Crowley.”

“It’s _not_,” Crowley muttered. “It’s not, it’s —”

_It’s selfish_, he didn’t say, _it’s incredibly fucking selfish of me. Because I want you to have everything, whatever you want, whatever makes you happy, because it makes **me** happy_.

_Because I’m falling in love with you._

“Never mind” was all he said. “Shaved ice. Sure. What, um.”

“I’ll just pop up to the counter and order us some.” Aziraphale stood and walked away as if everything was normal. As if Crowley wasn’t sitting here with his heart in messy splatters all over the rest of his guts.

He could at least keep it together long enough to eat some flavored ice, though, right? Sure. Absolutely. He was at least that functional as a human being.

When Aziraphale sat back down, placing a cup of bright red ice on the table, Crowley was perfectly calm. “Went with the strawberry?”

“It’s by far the best choice, in my opinion. Although I haven’t tried the grape yet, but...”

“Eugh, grape syrup. Good call.” He stabbed one of the spoons into the ice. “Always loved that crunching sound when I was a kid.”

Aziraphale’s lips twitched upward. “You know you can eat it, not just make noises with it, correct?”

“Maybe.” He stabbed a few more times. “Yep. Very satisfying.”

He stopped for a moment, watching carefully as Aziraphale used the other spoon to scoop up a bite. It disappeared into his mouth and was gone, leaving only the smile that passed over his face, the little hum in his throat.

Crowley let out a breath he’d apparently been hanging onto for a while, then took his own first bite.

“Oh!” He felt his eyes widen behind the sunglasses, and he shoved another spoonful in his mouth before grinning around it. “Holy fuck, this tastes exactly like what my mum used to make! She had this, this kit... thing... with the grindy bits, and she’d buy syrup...”

Aziraphale beamed at him. “You like it, then?”

“Yeah. God, I’d forgotten about that, though. Was obsessed with this stuff when I was, like, five. I’d make a huge mess of it every time, and mum'd get so mad when I got it on my dre —”

Everything stopped: the words, his lungs, his heart. His limbs felt cold. The ice in his stomach was maybe slightly colder.

Dress. That was the word he’d been about to say. His mum had hated it when he’d spilled colored sugar water on his dress.

He had come less than one word away from outing himself at a bloody poke restaurant.

Aziraphale’s face showed only concern, and when he reached across the table this time, the motion was hesitant. “Crowley? Is something wrong?”

“I.” Crowley put down his spoon. “I have to go, Aziraphale. ‘M sorry.”

He stood up fast enough that his chair squeaked across the floor.

“Nothing you did, I — I swear it’s not you. But I have to. Um.”

Aziraphale dropped his eyes to the table. “Of course. ...I hope you’ll be all right.”

“Thanks. Yeah.”

He managed to stumble out to the street without running into anything, and then it was simple enough to point his body in the direction of home. Let it do the walking while he shoved his stupid tiny hands as deep into his pockets as they’d go. Stupid curving hips under the pockets, and stupid chest that could never go bare because of its stupid scars, and stupid eyes that outed him unless he hid them away forever.

Stupid useless wrong body, and stupid him inside of it.

He was falling in love with Aziraphale, and Aziraphale might well have feelings for him, sure — but not really him. Those feelings would be for a Crowley with the right chromosomes, the right... the right parts. Not for _her_. Not the ghost of who he’d been, who he’d never really escape, still embedded in his blood and skin. Still carved into his flesh.

He barely remembered the walk back to his flat. It was all a nightmare. Just the hideous waking nightmare that was his life.

He’d gotten a few texts from Aziraphale, though.

_Hello, Crowley. I’m not sure what’s wrong, but I hope you know that I am more than ready to provide any help I might be able to. Anything at all. Please ask._

_Can you also let me know when you get home safely? Just a quick reply will do._

_Please be well, my dear._

Crowley’s breath juddered out in a sob when he got to the end.

_My dear_.

Aziraphale had never called him that. “My dear fellow,” sure, but he used that on everyone. Servers at restaurants were always “my dear fellow” or “my dear lady”.

Nobody was ever just “my dear”.

Except Crowley.

“Fuck,” he said to his room. “Fuck. God. I can’t —”

He looked again at those two words. _My dear_.

“I’m not, though. I won’t be.” He wiped at his eyes. “You’ll see.”

He texted _im home_, just getting it out of the way, and he had to squeeze his eyes shut against fresh tears when three smiley faces appeared. _Im fine but theres something I have to tell you_

Why hadn’t he just done this to begin with? Should have been the first thing he thought of when he realized he’d had a crush on Aziraphale. It would have been so much easier then. Not like this.

Aziraphale’s response was almost too fast. _What is it?_

Crowley took a deep breath.

_im trans_

_im sorry ive been lying this whole time im not who you thought i was_

_i wasn’t born male or raised as a boy or any of that_

_im sorry_

He waited for Aziraphale to either answer, or... or not.

_You say you’re not who I thought you were. Are you not actually my best friend Crowley? Because if that isn’t what you mean, then you are still exactly who I thought you were. The only difference is that now I know another of your secrets._

“Oh, you bastard,” Crowley whispered.

Another message popped in. _Thank you for your trust in me. I will try to deserve it._

“Beautiful bastard.” The tears were coming hard, now, enough that he couldn’t see to reply for a couple of minutes. “Goddamn wonderful beautiful bastard.”

_so u owe me two now_, he tapped out, finally.

_Yes. I would rather hold on to the one from Muramoto’s, still, although I think it might be time for it next time we meet. It might be relevant. I hope it’s relevant. But here is another._

A long pause.

_I wanted to be a stage magician when I was a boy. I practiced for, oh, probably thousands of hours. There were plenty of old books on the subject in the shop. I fancy I became somewhat good, at least for a child. But I was too shy to ever think of performing in front of anyone other than my grandparents. And I knew that if I did become a professional magician, someone else would inherit the shop, and that was more important to me. So I gave the magic up._

Crowley felt his mouth curve up in a fond smile, even though there were still tears in his eyes. _if u ever tried it again i would watch_

_Oh, good Lord, no. I can’t imagine the heckling I’d receive with you as the audience._

_i wouldn’t angel_

_I know you too well to hold you to that, dear._

Crowley didn’t have an answer to that. Not with that last word attached. Aziraphale didn’t seem to need one, though.

_Will you be all right? Is there anything I can do?_

_ill be fine_, Crowley sent back. _thank u_

_Do you still want to come by after your game this weekend like we planned?_

_yes,_ he tapped out, even though he wanted to shout it. _still want to try this fancy port youve been teasing_

_I don’t *tease*, Crowley. I merely describe in a manner which makes it sound tempting._

_well temptation accomplished okay ill be there soon as the games over_

_Wonderful. I look forward to it._

Crowley tapped out _i love you_ and didn’t send it. Plugged in a heart emoji but didn’t send that either. Didn’t bother with any kind of variant on _you’re amazing, and you’re beautiful, and all I want in the world is to hold you in my arms and kiss you until we’re both dizzy from the lack of oxygen_, because he knew he wouldn’t send it, even though it was true.

In the end, he let Aziraphale have the last word. Curled up on his bed, hugging himself very tightly, and wondered how the fuck this was happening. Wondered how he’d ever make it to Saturday, and Aziraphale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please come back Monday for the next chapter! It will probably be posted at an unusual time, since I'm going to be at a conference, but I will do everything in my power to actually post it Monday morningish central US time. Thursday's will probably also be at an unusual time, because I'll be at Disney World. (I am prepping them both ahead of time. I very much want to be sure you get the next few updates as scheduled.)
> 
> Also, I am planning to post a fluffy canonverse one-shot on Saturday, November 9th, sometime between 8 and 9 in the morning Central US time. [It is being written out of spite because artists keep drawing Aziraphale practically as thin as Crowley.](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/188865430594/me-sees-very-technically-well-done-cute-and) Aziraphale will be fat in it, and very beautiful, and Crowley will love him and his corporation very, very much. I hope you enjoy it if you decide to read it.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley's life continues to progress on a number of fronts, as he eagerly awaits the next time he'll see Aziraphale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _If I don't let myself be happy now then when?_  
_If not now when?_  
\-- Jimmy Eat World, "[For Me This Is Heaven](https://youtube.com/watch?v=XUlpnMWaNio)"

It had probably been a mistake for Crowley to think he could keep up an act of normalcy around his flatmates after everything. His coworkers, sure, since he wasn’t close to any of them; even his gaming mates, maybe, in the three or four hours a week that they actually saw him.

But Anathema and Liz had known him for a quarter of a century, and they knew what he looked like when he’d been crying.

“Jesus” was the first thing Anathema said when she got home that evening. She stopped in the middle of the living room to stare at him. “Weren’t you supposed to have a date with your Aziraphale today? What happened?”

“It wasn’t a — he’s not —” Crowley sighed. “Forget it.”

“Really. I can kick his arse for you if you need. Been a while since primary school, but I still remember some moves.”

Crowley shook his head as she dropped down next to him on the sofa. “‘S not like that.”

Anathema waited.

“I told him I was trans.”

“Holy shit,” Anathema breathed. The front door rattled, but neither of them looked up. “And what did he...”

Crowley held his phone up in front of his face. “‘You are still exactly who I thought you were,’” he read off the screen. “‘The only difference is that now I know another of your secrets.’” He flopped his head back. “Fucking wonderful _bastard_.”

“You came out to him via _text_?”

Liz made a strangled noise from over by the door. “He came out to him?!”

“Ugh. Yes, so we’re _all_ on the same page, I came out to Aziraphale. He knows I’m trans now. And he —” Something caught in his throat, but it wasn’t another sob, dammit. “He doesn’t mind.”

“That’s great!” Liz left her coat and purse in a random pile by the door, tripping out of her shoes to pounce on Crowley in a hug. “I’m so proud! So have you kissed him yet?”

“Elizabeth Adelaide Pulsifer! You’re asking him that question _now_?”

Liz shrugged. “I wanted to know now.”

Any other day, and Crowley might’ve given her a death glare, or said something tart and slouched away. All that seemed like too much work today, though. “Haven’t,” he mumbled. “Want to.”

“Well, you know where he lives.”

“Ghhhhh,” Crowley muttered at the ceiling.

“Look.” Anathema stood up, going into the kitchen and raising her voice over the sounds of drinks being arranged. “You can keep going on platonic dates and slowly dying inside forever, or you can pull the damn trigger.”

“Kind of uncomfortable with the trigger metaphor here, An.”

“Pull the lever. Flip the switch.” She came back in with three bottles of beer. “Do the thing. You just have to pick which thing.”

Crowley accepted his bottle with a grunt. “Can’t say no to him. Tried. Could ask me to sit through a local council meeting with him and I’d do it.”

“That’s so sweet,” Liz said.

“That’s so _sad_,” Anathema said.

“I know,” Crowley groaned, and knocked back half his beer.

* * *

Two days later, Crowley was staring at his manager and wondering whether he’d lost the ability to understand words.

“Sorry, I,” he said. “I’ve what now?”

“Effective end of the month,” they replied. “I would’ve liked to give you an earlier heads-up, but the word only came back yesterday.”

He’d done the Bentley math in his head probably a hundred times since starting this job, and now he did it once more. He’d thought he might have enough to make Dowling a halfway reasonable offer by maybe next April. But with this unexpected little change to his income...

Crowley coughed out a laugh. “F — God, I — it’s not a mistake? That’s a. A pretty big raise.”

“Not a mistake.” They smiled briefly, then nodded toward the dining room. “Now, the couple that always gets in a twist about the wine selection is back again — care to keep earning it?”

“Château Moot Whatever,” Crowley said. “Right.”

* * *

That week’s therapy session should have been about Anything But Aziraphale, because Crowley was not in the mood for Lara to root around in the very most tender part of his brain. It was probably her job to thwart him on that front, though. She was certainly good enough at it.

“I want you to give yourself credit for this,” she said, ignoring his scoff. “It takes a huge amount of bravery to come out to someone. Especially someone important to you.”

“Wasn’t brave.” Crowley was already slouching pretty vigorously, so he resisted the urge to be even more obvious about it. Didn’t want to end up on the floor. “I just wanted to make him hate me. Stop wasting his time on me. Wise up. That’s all.”

She gave him one of the very perceptive looks which meant she was about to poke his brain again. “You’re sure that’s the entire reason? You weren’t hoping at all that he’d respond positively?”

Crowley grumbled a few syllables.

“How did it feel to see his reaction?”

“Wh — how —” He actually sat up almost straight at that. Practically insulting, asking such an obvious question — “Look, it hurt, okay? I thought I was going to, to, just — fucking die.” Tears burned at the back of his eyes. “Made me cry.”

Lara did the look again. “So you were sad.”

“No, I bloody well wasn’t _sad_, and you know it.” Crowley sighed and slumped back again. “Bout the happiest I’ve ever been. Stupid amazing bastard.”

“That’s interesting. Since if you wanted him to hate you, this should have been a real disappointment.”

Crowley made a face at her.

* * *

“Good evening, Anthony!” The flat accent was friendly in the extremely specific way that only a career diplomat could manage. “I hope you’re well.”

Crowley tried not to squeeze the phone too hard. “I’m good. Good. Uh. Yourself, Mr Dowling?”

“Oh, doing great, thank you. Finally have everything dealt with after that little situation with the Australian delegation.”

Dowling laughed, so Crowley threw in a polite chuckle of his own. No idea what he was laughing at. Probably had to read the International Diplomat Times to get it, or something.

“Anthony, my son tells me you’re interested in purchasing the old Bentley.”

“Yeah. Yes.” Crowley cleared his throat. “I’m not... sure I’m ready to make an offer yet, but maybe a down payment —”

Dowling named a figure.

Crowley blinked. Ran a few numbers in his head. What he’d saved so far, the time till his next paycheck... how many cans of beans he was willing to eat to rebuild his bank account afterwards...

“I can do that,” he said. “I. I can meet that right now.”

“Wonderful! I’ll have someone reach out to you in the near future to make the arrangements, then.” A hearty chuckle. “Tell you the truth, I’m eager to get rid of all of our stored items there. Keeping them overseas is not an inexpensive proposition!”

Holy fuck. Holy fuck. “Hhh... no, it... it probably wouldn’t be. Thanks a lot, Mr Dowling.”

“Of course. Doing us both a favor, frankly.”

There was some other stuff, about the Mrs saying hello and Warlock doing well in his classes, but of course Crowley had probably heard that from him already, ha-ha. Crowley kept up his half as well as he could.

When he’d hung up, his first thought was of who to tell. The women were out for date night... his gaming mates didn’t even know about this...

The answer was obvious, but he stopped halfway through composing the text. _angel im buying the Bentley im buying the fucking be_ —

Aziraphale should be the first person he took for a ride in her. The very first.

Crowley loved the Bentley. Loved the way she felt under his hands, the freedom she gave him. Loved the sensation of sending her down a country lane at ninety miles an hour, almost fast enough to leave his own ghost behind.

He loved Aziraphale, too. Didn’t know how Aziraphale would feel in his hands, but God, Crowley loved him. Different kind of love. Different kind of freedom.

He wouldn’t tell Aziraphale about the Bentley yet. He’d keep it a surprise. Drive up to the shop in style, swagger in there to ask him on a drive... yes, a drive, angel, you heard correctly, come on out with me and take a look... and Aziraphale would say yes. Sure. It would be perfect. Absolutely perfect. Him, his beloved Bentley, his beloved angel.

Maybe he’d even drive them somewhere romantic. Meadow out in the country or something. If he could find one that didn’t just look dead this time of year. He’d make sure Aziraphale dressed warmly, of course, but if it got cold enough Crowley would certainly be willing to share body heat. Pull Aziraphale close to him, bury his face in those white-gold curls... maybe even have him _not_ immediately pull away in shock...

All that was for after he had her, though. He didn’t even know when that’d be yet.

But he was buying her. Finally, the Bentley was going to be _his_.

God, everything was so fucking _great_ lately.

He didn’t trust it. But he’d take it as long as it lasted.

* * *

“Got an idea,” Crowley said.

Ty shot up a hand. “I am as far away from the Archdevil as I can get, for the record.”

“Nattie, you’ve got rope, right? Can you. Like, feed it through the doorway to me?”

“Sure? All right, I do that.”

Crowley looked at Eric expectantly. Eric sighed.

“Through all three doorways, you see Lady D’Arkness pull some rope from her gear and start handing it toward you. It emerges through the...” A die clattered. “Middle door.”

“Right. I grab it. Nattie, don’t drop your end.”

“Crowley, what —”

“Now,” said Crowley, “now I take my end of the rope — having Lady D’Arkness keep feeding it to me as I go, here — and I’m gonna push it back through the, uh. The left door.” He grinned. “What happens?”

Eric gave him a look. “You see the rope pass back through the left doorway. It flops on the ground by Lady D’Arkness’s feet.”

“But on their side —”

“They see the rope just going into your room and then back out again.”

“Because they have only one door to my room.”

Eric nodded.

“But I’ve still got three leading back to them.”

Aksha started to grin. “Gurlington is a man of science, and as such is _very_ interested in doing some experimenting here. So, what if I pick the rope back up and throw it back through the door again...?”

“Look. Can we just assume that if you guys keep fucking with the fabric of space-time, then eventually you’ll destroy the universe? Can we please just assume that and not test it?”

“Maybe.” Crowley checked his inventory. “Oh. Still got a dead orc. Can I throw it through?”

Eric put their head in their hands. “The doors are protected by a mysterious forcefield which repels dead orcs specifically. It bounces off and hits you in the face. Roll for damage.”

Everyone else laughed at that, including Crowley.

* * *

Crowley was already packing up as Eric doled out XP at the end of the session. It’d been fun this week, sure, he and Aksha had almost destroyed the universe and how often did they get to say _that_, but.

But.

Aziraphale was waiting for him. Well, not that he was waiting for him exactly, obviously he had other things to do meanwhile, what with running the shop and all. Honestly, Crowley would probably interrupt him in the middle of something once he did show up. After that, though? The afternoon was just for them. Just the two of them.

When he half-tuned back into the ongoing conversation, though, he realized it was back on local gossip. Suddenly he couldn’t help but ask.

“Ey Nattie. Any more news on that, uh, mobster bookshop bloke lately?”

“Oh yeah! I forgot!” She grinned. “One of Thuy’s friends saw him and his boyfriend getting coffee. They were extremely soppy together, and he almost threw himself at the boyfriend when the boyfriend called him a cute name, and it was just generally disgusting.”

So this was what it felt like to have his heart pound hard enough to risk shattering a rib. “Cute name?”

Nattie gave exactly the answer he was expecting, dressed up in finger quotes with a little laugh. “‘Angel’.”

“Ha,” he responded faintly. His hands shook almost too much to close up his bag. “That’s. That’s pretty ridiculous.”

“It’s kinda sweet, though.” She smiled. “I hope they don’t have to break up when he goes to prison.”

* * *

He didn’t run to the shop. Be undignified. And he’d get there all disheveled.

He did, however, walk very, very quickly.

_Extremely soppy together_ kept playing in his head, and _almost threw himself at the boyfriend_. Crowley was definitely soppy, Nattie’s friend of a friend was right on that account. But Aziraphale throwing himself at him... oh, that would be something. Sudden double armful of the most beautiful man in Soho — in London —

Crowley’s heart skipped unevenly in his chest. Bookshop first. No sense getting too far ahead of himself. Bookshop, and a glass or two of port, and Aziraphale. _Aziraphale_.

There was another of those fussy hand-lettered signs on the door when he got there. The shop had closed at noon. Almost two hours ago, now. The door was unlocked when he tried it, though, and he pushed through, into the paper-smelling dimness. The bell above him sang out his arrival.

“Crowley!” said the only voice in the world he wanted to hear.

“Angel,” he replied; and when he took off his sunglasses, it was not, absolutely _not_ just because it was so much darker in here than outside. Wouldn’t even try to lie to himself about that anymore. “How ya been?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please come back Thursday for the next chapter (which I promise picks up right where this one leaves off)! It will probably be posted at an unusual time, since I'm going to be at Disney World, but I will do my best to get it up in the United States morning hours. Honestly, there's a good chance it'll go up early, because I'll be an hour ahead of home.
> 
> I fly back home Friday, so travel should not prevent me from getting Monday's up at the usual 8-9 AM Central US time.
> 
> (Oh, and the three-doors-that-are-actually-one-door thing is from the very first tabletop RPG session I ever played. I was the weirdo who tried feeding rope through to see what would happen. I don't recall whether I tried using any of the dead orcs we were carting around, though.)


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale reveals the secret which he has wanted to be relevant to Crowley ever since they ran into each other at Muramoto's over two months ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter-specific warning notes:**
> 
>   * Internalized fatphobia
>   * The word "fat" is used, but never, ever negatively, because this is the Soft Zone(TM)

Aziraphale was wearing his tartan bow tie today, and his cream-colored waistcoat hugged his body like it had been made for him, which of course it had been, he had all his clothing tailored, that was one of the things Crowley had learned about him and no wonder it all fit so well. No wonder he looked so good. Even though he’d look good in a sack. Make the _sack_ look good.

“Crowley?”

He realized he’d been asked something, but damned if he knew what. “Sorry. I, uh — yeah?”

Aziraphale smiled at him, eyes twinkling. “Care to retire to the back room? Or would you rather stand here staring into space a bit longer?”

“Staring’s fun. Maybe I want to do that.” He took off his bag and slung it over its usual hook on the coat rack, tucking his sunglasses into one of the outer pockets. “Shouldn’t judge my hobbies. I don’t judge yours.”

“You judge mine all the time. ‘Bookworm’ indeed.” Aziraphale moved toward him, reaching up, and Crowley’s eyes widened —

The plump hand retrieved something from another hook. A fluffy familiar something that Crowley hadn’t seen since fleeing their lunch a week ago.

“I don’t want you forgetting your gift this time,” Aziraphale said. He draped the scarf over Crowley’s bag, smoothing it down with gentle fingers. “I swear, it’s a wonder you’re not deathly ill, the way you refuse to dress for the weather.”

“Maybe I just like you fussing over me.”

Aziraphale’s hands stilled.

“I am sure,” he replied softly, “that I could find more than enough to fuss over without you risking your health.”

Crowley’s breath drifted to a stop. Funny how much he wanted to step closer to Aziraphale. Funny how he couldn’t. He was frozen. Feet and lungs and everything, everything but his dully thumping heart.

“Now.” Aziraphale gave him another tiny smile. “Let’s head back and I can make good on my little temptation.”

It was so hard to not just stare at those soft lips. “T-temptation.”

“A very excellent ruby port. Bit less sweet than most, which I believe you should appreciate.”

“The port. Right.”

“After you...?”

Crowley settled into his usual spot on the sofa, tossing pillows around until he’d formed a suitable nest. Aziraphale poured two small glasses, handed him one, and sat in his own chair with the other.

Taking a sip gave Crowley something to think about, so he did that. “Huh. ‘S good. Not too sweet, you were right.”

Aziraphale’s lips curved upward. “I’m glad you like it. I’m very glad.”

They sat in silence for a bit. Crowley put away most of his drink pretty quickly before realizing he probably wanted to keep it around as a distraction; Aziraphale, though, drank his slowly, savoring it. Same as he did with everything.

Eventually he sat the half-empty glass down on a table and sighed.

“Crowley?”

“Yeah?”

Aziraphale looked down at his own hands, which had started worrying at each other against his belly. “You’ll recall, I still owed you a secret.”

“Yeah. You said —” Crowley decided that actually putting his glass aside sounded better than letting his shaky fingers drop it. “You said you weren’t sure if it was time for it yet, back at Muramoto’s. So you wanted to hang on to it.”

“That’s right. I wanted to be sure it was — relevant. And I think — I hope I’m not... misinterpreting. But I’ve come to believe that it might be.” Aziraphale glanced at Crowley for a half-second, then looked away again. “And if it is relevant to you, then you should know. It could... change things. Potentially quite a bit.”

Crowley’s breath quivered out in a rush. This sounded bad. What could Aziraphale possibly have to say that would change anything? _I actually am secretly in the mob_. _I’m taking a vow of silence, so I’ll never be talking to you again_. _I’m moving to Australia and never coming back_.

_I’m seeing someone_.

Anything could be possible, really. Even that last one. He could’ve guessed everything wrong, after all. It just felt like he’d come so _close_. He’d actually believed that happiness, an actual shot at just not being so _lonely_ anymore, might actually not pass him by for once. To lose Aziraphale now... “Tell me?”

Seconds passed, and Crowley waited. All he could do was wait, until the shoe fell, the bomb dropped, his heart broke. Until Aziraphale would just tell him what it was that he thought was so...

“I’m asexual,” Aziraphale said to his hands.

...relevant.

Something Aziraphale was hoping might be relevant.

To him. To Crowley.

“I have had a partner who wanted... relations.” Aziraphale’s mouth turned down. “But it isn’t something I’m interested in. And it isn’t something I ever wish to try. Not even with y —” He stopped, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. “Not with anyone.”

Oh.

Oh, this was relevant. This was very fucking relevant. Aziraphale’s secret, his huge fucking “once I tell you this it might change everything” bombshell, was that he wasn’t going to have sex, _not even with Crowley_.

Which kind of suggested that there was maybe something else he did want to do. With Crowley.

Crowley became aware that he was smiling very, very broadly.

“What’s your position on hugging, then? Cuddling. Snuggles. No sex stuff. Those all right?”

Aziraphale’s cheeks darkened. “I... I do enjoy those,” he stammered.

“Kissing. Good with kissing? Hands, maybe. Cheeks. Little turned-up tip of the nose.” His chest hitched. “Lips.”

“Crowley...” Aziraphale nodded rapidly, eyes glued to the floor. “Yes. Oh yes.”

Crowley stood up from the sofa.

“And idiot waiters who wouldn’t know a Château Moot Whatever if it hit them in the face? Got any particular opinion on them?”

Aziraphale looked up at him, finally, and his eyes were shining with tears.

But he was _smiling_.

“One of those would go very nicely with the other things,” he answered. “I think.”

Crowley stumbled across the rug, sinking to his knees by Aziraphale’s chair and gazing starry-eyed into his face. “Oh, you gorgeous creature,” he half-whispered. “I can’t believe _you’re_ ace, _too_.”

Aziraphale gasped, the sound tiny and world-shattering. He shifted in his chair, turning toward Crowley, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. “Do... do I understand correctly that you would be interested in... beginning a romantic relationship?”

“Wh —” Crowley laughed giddily. “_Yes_, okay, what kind of a question is that, yes I would be interested in beginning a romantic relationship. With you, specifically. Extremely fucking interested in that thing. Just getting that down on the record while we’re at it. Can I kiss you now?”

Aziraphale blushed the most adorable shade of pink Crowley had ever seen. “If you want to.”

“If I want to. If I _want_ to.” He all but swooned against the armrest of Aziraphale’s chair, propping himself up on his hands. “Honestly, angel. Why would I want anything else?”

Aziraphale leaned toward him. One plump hand covered Crowley’s, hesitantly, and something in Crowley’s chest twisted with a glorious ache. Oh, it hurt. Feeling Aziraphale’s hand on his, smelling the papery-flowery scent of his cologne, seeing his beautiful smiling face so incredibly close now as Crowley leaned in too — every bit of it hurt so wonderfully in his tattered pounding heart.

The warm press of Aziraphale’s lips against his made everything else shut down.

There was a flash of white behind his eyelids, a sudden soundless ringing in his ears. He couldn’t feel the chair under his hands, the floor under his knees. His lungs had stopped. All that was left was those lips, those sweet pink delicate lips, slotted in against his, gently seeking, softly finding.

Aziraphale’s other hand fluttered against Crowley’s jaw. When it found its confidence, cupping his face with unspeakable reverence, Crowley whimpered. “Angel,” he managed, before Aziraphale’s mouth found his again. “Pretty angel.” A pause for another kiss. “Howzabout some of that snuggling now? Yeah?”

“Please,” Aziraphale breathed against him, low and trembling.

Crowley broke their kiss, then clambered over the arm of the chair — Aziraphale made a series of aggrieved noises as arms and legs flung everywhere for a few seconds — ending up on Aziraphale’s lap, pressed up against his chest, his belly. It was probably a good thing that most of his senses still weren’t quite working. Having this much of Aziraphale soft and yielding beneath him would probably have killed him otherwise.

“Might decide to stay here forever.” Crowley nuzzled his face against Aziraphale’s, wanting to kiss him again, but forcing himself to breathe for a while first. “Just as a warning.” His arms looped around Aziraphale’s shoulders and clinched tightly. “Little bit of an FYI.”

Warm, heavy arms encircled him, drawing him even closer, and he made a sound that wasn’t even a whimper, just a broken little cry.

“I think I might let you, darling.”

Crowley _winced_ at what that did to his heart.

“I really do think I might.”

Aziraphale tilted his head, reaching, and Crowley drew in one last ragged breath before being reclaimed. This kiss was slow, and gentle, almost entirely led by Aziraphale, because Crowley just didn’t have much of anything left, he really didn’t. But what he did have he’d give willingly, happily. Let Aziraphale kiss him until the very end. Fine. Great. He’d die with a smile on his face, and how often could a person say _that_?

Aziraphale’s arms moved over his back, his shoulders. Pudgy fingers combed through his hair and he shivered.

“Dear...?”

“‘M okay. Very green light from me.” Crowley brushed his lips against one round cheek. “You?”

Aziraphale laughed quietly, eyes closed, head tipping back as Crowley kissed his other cheek. “Oh, no concerns here,” he murmured, and Crowley felt the words vibrate through his own body. “Only I’m rather worried that I’m dreaming all this. I’d thought for so long that there was no way you would ever want to —” Crowley kissed the graceful curve of his jaw, and he huffed another laugh. “But then I thought, perhaps you could. The way you — _looked_ at me, sometimes...”

Aziraphale opened his eyes again, and Crowley just grinned at him. Oh, but his angel was so beautiful, so clever and quick-witted, soft-hearted and soft...

“Like that,” Aziraphale whispered. “Yes, that’s it. That’s what made me think that you could.”

“Dunno how I could possibly not want to do this. Be doing exactly this thing, right now.” Crowley pressed his lips to Aziraphale’s one more time, lingering for the barest second, before he turned and rested his head against one padded shoulder. Aziraphale’s body rose and fell against him with each breath. “Dunno why there’s not a line at the door for this.”

The rhythm of Aziraphale’s breathing paused. “Crowley. Dear. I’m sure you do know.”

“Mnuh?”

Aziraphale had gone tense, and when Crowley raised his head again, the sweet blueish eyes were aimed off toward a corner of the room. There was no hint of a smile on his face now. Just a closed-off expression that made Crowley’s heart clench.

“I’m not... attractive. It’s hardly a secret, assuming one has eyes.” He squirmed a bit under Crowley, and then Crowley felt him pull back somehow, all that tantalizing softness retreating — shit, was Aziraphale actually trying to suck it in? — “Or a working sense of touch.”

Crowley gaped at him.

“I’m... I’m very grateful you’re still willing to...” Aziraphale looked at him for the tiniest instant, then away again. His mouth trembled. “But I know what I look like. You don’t need to pretend on my account.”

The entire world lurched, went dark around the edges. This was the most beautiful man in London. In England. Probably in the universe, and he thought — he actually thought he wasn’t — 

_I fell for you the very first time we said boo to each other!_, he wanted to shout. _I think I would bloody well know whether you were attractive, and it turns out you very much are!_

The heavenly mound of belly beneath him was stiff now, held in as if it were something to be concealed. Something for Aziraphale to be ashamed of. As if it weren’t just part of him, just _him_, just the man who Crowley loved more than he had any idea what to do with —

“Aziraphale, please,” he muttered, hands sliding to the broad chest, scrabbling over the rough texture of Aziraphale’s waistcoat. “I’m not pretending. I promise I’m not pretending. I don’t know why there’s not a line around the block to be your boyfriend.”

There was a flicker in Aziraphale’s face at that last word.

“You’re the most amazing person I’ve ever known, angel. You are. I don’t know who taught you any different, but I’ll kick their arses if I ever meet them.” He snorted. “That’s a lie, I’ve never won a fight in my life. They’d kick _my_ arse. But I’d spit on ‘em on my way down. They never deserved you.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said.

“Look, attractiveness is bullshit, okay, it’s overrated bullshit and there’s so much more a person can be, like brilliant and generous and a really proper bastard and a wonderful friend.”

He took Aziraphale’s round chin in one hand, gently tipping his face until their eyes met.

“But God, Aziraphale. You look... so, so good to me.”

Aziraphale didn’t answer. He studied Crowley for a moment, two, three; there was nothing Crowley could do but stare back, hoping he’d pass this judgment, hoping he wouldn’t be found wanting. He looked away long enough to scrub gathering tears from his eyes, and as he did so he felt Aziraphale shift again.

“I don’t really understand. But...” The arms around him squeezed gently, and one hand found its way back to his hair. “I do believe you.”

Aziraphale relaxed against him. Softness spilled out again, warm against Crowley’s body, and Crowley shivered with relief, with love for his beautiful angel. With worry too, but there would be plenty of time to make Aziraphale understand. Loads of opportunities to express how perfect he was, fat and perfect and the two weren’t mutually exclusive at all, no, not by a very very long shot. 

And here was one of those opportunities right now. Wouldn’t want that shiver to be the least bit misinterpreted.

Crowley traced loving fingers along Aziraphale’s cheek, down his jaw to the flawless hang of double chin. Used those slightly-trembling fingers to guide him into another kiss. Open mouths and warm breath mingling and hearts racing, both of them together, so that he couldn’t tell them apart anymore. He worked his devotion into Aziraphale’s eager mouth until he was very, very sure the message had been received.

Aziraphale was blushing again when he finally pulled away. “I think you may have left a bruise with that one.”

“‘M sorry, angel.” Crowley placed the tiniest peck on the corner of Aziraphale’s lip. “Better?”

“Oh yes.”

He rested his forehead against Aziraphale’s. “So you’re my boyfriend now,” he said, remembering how Aziraphale had reacted to the word. “‘N I’m yours. And we’re dating.” He smoothed at the lapel of Aziraphale’s waistcoat. “Sound good?”

“It sounds lovely, my dearest.” There was a catch in Aziraphale’s voice, but he was smiling again. One hand stroked Crowley’s hair in a tender rhythm.

“And I’m gonna tell everyone. I’m going to be really obnoxiously public about it. Shout from the rooftops, like. Still good?”

A little shudder. “Yes. Yes, but... only if you want to.”

“Oh, believe me, I want to.” He leaned back just enough to look Aziraphale in the eyes again. “And we’re gonna have lots and lots of kisses, and hugs and cuddles and, and I’m gonna hold your _hand_.” He grinned at the thought, squirming in Aziraphale’s lap and getting a giggle in return. “But no sex. How does all that strike you?”

Aziraphale smiled at him, bright enough to sizzle his poor heart to a crisp. “It’s perfect, my darling.” He kissed Crowley on the nose. “It’s everything I’ve dreamed.”

“Hrlgkt,” Crowley replied.

That earned him another kiss to the nose. Crowley squeezed his eyes shut against the wicked assault, hiding his suddenly-burning face against his gorgeous boyfriend’s chest.

_I love you_, he mouthed silently, because it was true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys. I am slightly teary-eyed, way back on the Friday before this goes up, because I'm prepping the draft now and I'm _so excited_ to have finally gotten to this point. Thank you to _everyone_ who has followed me through eleven chapters of pining and one of pining plus WHOA SUDDENLY NOT PINING (whether you've been there since day one, or whether you just marathoned through from the beginning). I truly hope that I made it all worth it with this update. 
> 
> I definitely want to hear from anyone who would like to share their feelings at this point, because most of this chapter was written back at the end of September, and I have wanted to be able to share it with you all _for six agonizing weeks_. If I didn't have the constant support of the always wonderful [hope_in_the_dark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hope_in_the_dark/works) then I would probably have perished. (hi Hope ilu) (everyone has read her The Best Laid Plans yes? and her other AUs?)
> 
> There is lots and lots and lots of softness coming. Lots and lots. It's not going to be all roses and happy times, but I promise you that the softness will win.
> 
> Please join me again on Monday. There is going to be art, similar to what I did for chapters 1 and 4.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first few weeks of Crowley's relationship with Aziraphale are... _mostly_ good...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter-specific warning notes:** the word "fat" is used, but never, ever negatively, because this is the Soft Zone(TM)
> 
> This chapter has art! I am going to link to it in the text footnote-style, right at the point where it is appropriate, but I will also put a link to it [here](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/189147623434/aziraphale-sat-to-crowleys-right-again-last). You may want to not look at it until you get to the appropriate point, but that's not required. <3!

Crowley quickly made himself the world expert in kissing Aziraphale. Those soft pink lips were better than he had ever imagined, tender and yearning and tasting of port (the first time), or chocolate (when he’d stopped by during Aziraphale’s afternoon cocoa break), or baklava (walking back from lunch and Crowley just couldn’t wait any longer, stopping Aziraphale on the pavement to whisper his request, and Aziraphale’s reply was very much in the affirmative, thick rich honey and the bite of cinnamon and a mouth that gave and gave with more gentleness than Crowley could stand); or just of his own sweet angel, his very own.

The first time he’d called him that out loud, they’d both grinned at each other like fools afterward. 

“What do you think of Peruvian for lunch?” Aziraphale had asked as he finished up at the register.

Crowley hadn’t even thought about it; it’d just popped out, like these things always did, him and his runaway mouth. “Whatever you like, my angel.”

They’d both heard it, looked toward each other, Crowley’s bare eyes meeting Aziraphale’s. Then came the grinning. Total idiots, both of them.

Then Aziraphale had come around the counter to kiss him, of course, and Crowley’d suddenly had his arms overflowing with gorgeous fat angel boyfriend. So maybe he wasn’t such an idiot after all.

Holding Aziraphale was another thing that was even better than he’d dared dream. His body was just so _soft_, so round and squeezable that Crowley had his hands on it pretty much every opportunity he got, which was... not as often as he would have liked, to be honest. There was a boundary there that Aziraphale wasn’t always comfortable letting him cross. Arms around the wide shoulders, or hands on the padded chest, were always okay. Arms around the perfect glorious bountiful waist from the front were okay most of the time, though Crowley never failed to ask.

Arms around the waist from the back, or anything else involving Crowley’s hands directly on Aziraphale’s middle, were almost always a no-go. Most of the time Crowley didn’t even bother trying to ask. He’d wait for Aziraphale to initiate, tentatively taking Crowley’s hand and putting it where he wanted it. Curving around his side as they stood waiting to cross a street, maybe. On the arc of his belly as they cuddled on the sofa. He’d be silent, and usually blushing, but once Crowley’s hand was settled against him he’d slowly relax.

Once, a couple of weeks into the glorious new era of Holding Aziraphale, he had placed Crowley’s hand on his belly while they were snuggled together watching a movie; but he’d still seemed tense for a while afterwards. Crowley had nuzzled into his curls. “Angel. You don’t have to let me t... touch you. If you don’t want to.”

“It’s not that.” Aziraphale’s voice had been so quiet that Crowley had to strain to hear. “Could... could you...?”

He flared brilliant red, and didn’t say any more. But his hand came up to take Crowley’s, very gently, moving it in a slow circle over the surface of his waistcoat.

Crowley’s throat clicked. “G — yes. Yes, I can. Yes.” He closed his eyes and tried very hard to keep his breathing even as he rubbed that wonderful belly. “Is this good?”

“Very,” Aziraphale whispered. “Thank you, dearest.”

“Anything for you, my beautiful angel.” Crowley kissed his perfect curls, thinking back to an alley in the rain, to a single accidental unthinking touch which had by some miracle turned into... this. “Anything.”

* * *

His gaming mates had gone wild over the news, of course. Not Eric — they couldn’t care less about local gossip — but Nattie and Ty were both shocked.

It didn’t help that Crowley hadn’t gotten the chance to tell them himself. Nattie had found it out from one of her many friends, who’d seen him and Aziraphale kissing goodbye outside the shop. The friend didn’t know Crowley, but she’d described the mysterious boyfriend in great detail, and Nattie had deduced that Soho probably only had one tall skinny redhead in sunglasses with a snake tattoo on his temple.

_I swear we only started dating saturday!!_ he’d sent to the ongoing Discord meltdown.

_oh so everyone thought you were both going to jump each other any second now FOR WEEKS but you were just friends????_

He’d glanced up at Aziraphale, sitting across the table, looking not entirely displeased at the fact that there was a conversation going on about them. “She doesn’t believe we’ve only been dating four days.”

“Oh dear. Was I really that obvious to everyone?”

Crowley grinned. “Think we both were, angel.”

_turns out we’re both idiots_, he’d tapped out, before putting his phone away to free up his attention for better things.

* * *

Liz and Anathema took them out to dinner to celebrate. At Muramoto’s, and Crowley informed them that he saw exactly what they were doing there, and Anathema replied smugly that she really didn’t care.

“God, you have no idea how much _pining_ we had to put up with,” Anathema said over miso soup. “He moped _so much_ after running away from his old job. I was this close to kicking his arse.”

Aziraphale sat to Crowley’s right again. Last time it had been eight-odd inches between them, but tonight it was nothing at all. Their chairs angled up against each other, Aziraphale’s rounded side pressed against Crowley’s with Crowley’s arm slung easily around Aziraphale’s shoulders. Full up of his loveliness the way it bloody well should be. And Aziraphale, soft under Crowley’s arm, smiled fondly. “Did he now,” he said, looking up at Crowley with his gray eyes sparkling. “Maybe he shouldn’t have run away, then, hmm?”[[1]](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/189147623434/aziraphale-sat-to-crowleys-right-again-last)

“Should’ve told me to ‘be not afraid’ and stuff.” Crowley leaned in closer, breathing in Aziraphale’s cologne and the ghost of shampoo in his curls and just _him_, just all of him. “Angels’re supposed to do that.”

“If either of us ought to have been intimidated by the other, my dashing young man...”

“Oh, ‘young man’, as if there’s more’n about a year and a half between us...”

There was a quiet squeaking sound from the other side of the table, and Crowley realized that he was about five seconds from kissing Aziraphale very gently and at great length. He looked over to see Liz staring at them bright-eyed over the hands clasped to her mouth.

“You two are so _cute_, I can’t stand it,” she breathed.

Anathema had on an extremely dry expression. “I can’t stand it either.”

Crowley glared at An for a moment, just on principle. Then he looked back at Aziraphale, who was tilting his head upward, mouth parted and eyes half-closed, and what kind of idiot would Crowley have to be to resist that? Different kind than he actually was, that was certain.

He took Aziraphale’s pretty double chin in his free hand, catching his lips just long enough to appreciate his quietly hummed response.

* * *

As December neared, everyone got more irritatingly festive, although for once Crowley didn’t mind it much. Even Aziraphale’s habit of getting distracted by every dressed-up shop window on the way to wherever they might be going wasn’t nearly as annoying as it should have been.

“Of course you love Christmas,” he’d muttered as Aziraphale marveled over one of those too-precious model train villages with all the little plastic snowdrifted roofs. “I should have known. It’s like the tartan but it takes up a whole bloody month.”

“Please, Crowley, I know you do have _some_ joy in your heart.” Aziraphale had rested one hand on Crowley’s back, the contact felt through glove and jacket and shirt, but still casually domestic enough to make Crowley’s heart wobble all the same. “It’s just nice to imagine a little place like this somewhere... all the homes warm and snug against the snow...” The hand on Crowley’s back slid down to take his arm. “All the families inside, safe and together...”

Crowley had just managed to reply in a voice that he was pretty sure wouldn’t raise any suspicion. “Zactly. Your kind of thing all over.”

Aziraphale had tutted at him, and they’d gone on. But Crowley very carefully did not forget how Aziraphale had squeezed his arm. Families, safe and together. Yeah. Crowley had already started thinking about that.

* * *

When Crowley slammed through the bookshop door three weeks before Christmas, he didn’t think anything of the fact that the place was empty. It was empty most of the time, honestly, even during its open hours like this — other than maybe a sleeping grad student tucked away in a corner somewhere, mug of cocoa or tea going quietly cold beside them. So no customers in sight, no Aziraphale, but he yelled out “Oi, angel!” all the same as he took off his coat (and fluffy golden-tan scarf). No answer, so he started toward the back. Probably Aziraphale was deep in a book, or maybe at the computer in the tiny office doing business things. He got distracted like that occasionally, but Crowley was more than willing to snap him out of it with a kiss on the cheek, or maybe a hand stroked through pale curls.

He found him in the back room, sitting in his chair with a mug of tea, not reading or doing anything apparent. He was just staring into space, brown eyes worried beneath his wrinkled forehead. When Crowley pressed his lips to that forehead, he barely even got a response at first.

“Oh... Crowley.” Aziraphale blinked slowly. “Hello, dear. Is it eleven-thirty already?”

“Yep. You okay?” Crowley crouched down in front of him. “Need to call off?”

“N-no! Goodness, no.” Aziraphale set down his mug, then leaned forward to give Crowley an unusually vehement kiss. “I treasure every second we have together, darling,” he finished. There was something off, though, and it wasn’t just the slight breathlessness.

Something unpleasant bubbled up in Crowley’s chest. He stood back up, hands finding his pockets. “But,” he said.

“It’s nothing. It’s really nothing, only...”

“Only?”

“I’ve... I’ve been trying to think of the best way to talk about this...”

Crowley looked down at the floor. “At least tell me you’re not breaking up with me, angel.” His voice was small and quiet because otherwise it would shatter in his throat. “Cause it kinda sounds like you are.”

Aziraphale didn’t say anything.

“Or if you are, then I guess tell me you are.”

“I — _breaking up_? Crowley —”

Which still wasn’t a “no”. Still wasn’t an “I want to be with you”. And Crowley had thought everything was going great, but he’d been wrong about that other times, hadn’t he? If Aziraphale had changed his mind... had realized, once he had Crowley, that he didn’t actually want him...

He took a step back. Continued looking at the floor, avoiding Aziraphale’s eyes. Hands so deep in his pockets that they’d never see the light of day again. “It’s fine. Look, I’ll, I’ll just go. You can text me if you —”

Aziraphale stood up so quickly that it sent Crowley stumbling back another step. “Don’t you dare go, you stupid man —”

Crowley blinked, and then Aziraphale was right there, hands reaching up to cradle his face. His body pressed against Crowley’s, and oh, he was soft. “Of _course_ I’m not breaking up with you, you absolute idiot. I’d never — I —” He was trembling, eyes dark with emotion, but when he went up on tiptoes to put his mouth on Crowley’s, it was with so much gentleness that Crowley felt woozy. Could barely pull himself together enough to return the kiss. Aziraphale dropped back down again, and Crowley followed him gladly.

His hands quivered by his sides, until Aziraphale broke their kiss just long enough to murmur “Please hold me, dearest.” Then he shot his arms around Aziraphale’s waist so fast that it was a miracle he didn’t pull something.

“Is this — is this what you meant, is this okay —”

Aziraphale’s fingers brushed his lips, quieting him. “Do you know, nobody has ever held me as if they wanted to? And yet I feel as though you do want to.”

“Want to. Yes. Very much.” Crowley squeezed him, just a little, just enough to feel the give in his round body. “Forever, if you’ll let me. You’re not leaving me? You sure?”

“...ah.”

He felt Aziraphale go tense. Rested his chin against one shoulder and waited.

“That... that was part of what I needed to tell you. I have to go away for a bit.”

Then, in a rush, “Only for a few days, though! It’s just — there’s an auction next week, in Amsterdam of all places, and I wasn’t planning to go, but they’ve just announced some additional lots and there are several books I really would like to add to my collection...”

Crowley started to laugh.

“...and bids are only accepted in person...” Aziraphale shifted in Crowley’s arms to give him a confused look. “And why is that funny?”

“Figures,” Crowley choked out, still laughing. “I think you’re going to dump me, but all you want is to go buy more books.” He landed a quick grinning kiss against one plump cheek. “You’re ridiculous,” he giggled. Kissed the other cheek. “Ridiculous.”

“I’m...? Crowley, it’s my _livelihood_...”

Crowley kissed the tip of his adorable nose. “Run off to Amsterdam and bid on your fancy books. I’ll still be here when you get back.”

That dark look came back into Aziraphale’s eyes, though, and when his hands crept into Crowley’s hair, they were trembling. “There was... one other trip I did already know about. I hadn’t mentioned it because I wasn’t sure whether I should ask... whether it was too soon to...”

Crowley rubbed his back. “Go on.”

“I’ve told you about my family in Tadfield. Dierdre is my... second cousin once removed, I believe it is. And her husband, and their son.”

“Your godson.”

Aziraphale smiled brilliantly for just a moment. “Yes. A very clever young man.” The smile slipped away. “They invite me to their home for Christmas every year, because I’ve never really had anyone else but them, after my grandparents passed.”

“Sure,” Crowley said. Bit disappointed, because this was a lot more No Aziraphale than he’d been expecting so soon after they’d started dating, but it was still a hell of a lot better than what he’d thought three minutes ago. “So you’ll be away visiting them too, yeah? That’s fine. Dunno why you were afraid to mention that —”

“Or.”

Crowley waited, but there didn’t seem to be any more. “Yes?”

Aziraphale lowered his eyes and blushed like they were back at the Clover Cafe again, like they’d gone back to the summer, and Crowley had just said something stupidly lovesick.

“Or you could come with me.”

Crowley felt his arms tighten around Aziraphale on their own.

“Unless it’s... too soon. Probably far too soon. But I would love to have you come.” Aziraphale looked up at him, entire face gone brilliant pink. “To join the rest of my family.”

There were words that would maybe make a good answer to that, but Crowley was damned if he could think of any. Wouldn’t have been able to get them out anyway. Not past the sudden aching something in his throat.

He leaned down and touched his lips to one corner of Aziraphale’s mouth, then the other. When Aziraphale responded, catching Crowley’s lips with a little gasping sigh, he felt everything go white for a second, just like it had the first time they’d kissed. Nails gently scratched at his scalp, making him shiver.

“We’d catch a cab out there the twenty-fourth,” Aziraphale murmured, voice low and dreaming. “Stay through Christmas and come back the day after.”

Crowley nodded.

“You wouldn’t have to — to bring anything. Only just be there. With me.”

Crowley nodded again.

“Oh, thank you, Crowley. Thank you for...”

Aziraphale _wiggled_ in Crowley’s arms, then, a happy little all-over shimmy that ended with his head nestled against Crowley; and Crowley’s heart punched right through his ribs, ran out of the shop, and left him a shattered wreck of whatever he might once have been.

“...for everything,” Aziraphale whispered into Crowley’s chest.

“Gyeah,” Crowley replied.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley passes the time while Aziraphale is away on a book-purchasing trip, with a surprise planned for when his angel returns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter-specific warning notes:** brief mention of gender dysphoria.

She was beautiful. She was gorgeous, an absolute vision, and she was _his_. Nobody could keep them apart anymore. Crowley ran his hands over her and thought about everything they could do together. Just the two of them — and Aziraphale.

He’d managed to wrangle things so that all the arrangements for the Bentley could be taken care of while Aziraphale was off on his book trip. They texted back and forth as much as possible, sometimes for hours at a time, and Crowley kept him updated on everything but this. She was his now, bought and delivered and parked a half-block from the flat. And she was going to be his little secret until the moment he pulled up to the shop.

_i have a surprise for u the day after u get back_ was all he’d said on the subject. _meet u after close, goes til ???. That ok?_

_That sounds wonderful. In fact, I seem to have just decided that I’ll be closing at noon that day in order to spend some time with the fellow I’ve been seeing._

Crowley grinned and resisted the urge to kiss his phone screen. _how was first day of the auction_

A long wait, followed by an even longer message that started out _Splendid! I’ve already acquired one of the lots I was interested in, which contains a number of late-18th-century rarities..._

* * *

“Do you still feel like you don’t trust it?”

Crowley aimed his sunglasses at the ceiling. “I... yeah. I don’t. Not my thing, being happy. Doesn’t work. Doesn’t last.”

Lara nodded. “Why?”

“Well, just, nothing does last, right? Everything ends. I’ll get fired from the job eventually, or I’ll quit. Probably sooner or later An and Liz will decide they want to finally get married and get a nice place somewhere by themselves, and then no third wheel Crowley.” He wanted to leave it there, but Lara was giving him the perceptive look again. “Aziraphale will get tired of me. Or one of us will have to, to move or something.”

“I mean, that might all be true.” She tapped her pencil a couple of times. “But if so, then everything bad ends, too. You find a new job, find new people to enrich your life. Find a new significant other.”

Crowley snorted. “Not the same. It’s like — you go to camp for a week and you come home and your mum’s killed your goldfish. And she’ll get you a new goldfish, but you still lost the first one, right? Still gone forever.”

“And Aziraphale is the goldfish here.”

“Yes, Aziraphale is the goldfish here,” Crowley repeated, throwing in a little sarcastic finger-wiggle to make sure his meaning was clear.

“But weren’t you still happy while you had the goldfish? Or did you spend the whole time you had it worried about when you wouldn’t anymore?”

There was silence for a few seconds.

“Don’t like this metaphor anymore,” Crowley mumbled.

Lara shrugged. “Don’t blame me. It was your metaphor.”

“Anyway, just because I finally have an aquarium after years of, of almost no fish at all, doesn’t mean I know what the bloody hell to do with it now.” Crowley stared glumly at the wall behind Lara. “Don’t even know how to change the damn water.”

“I think you go to the pet shop and ask for help.”

“Tried that. The woman working there just asks a lot of stupid questions.”

“Well, if answering the questions doesn’t help your understanding of how to take care of your fish, you could always try a different shop.” She leaned forward. “Just don’t dump out the tank because you think it’ll be easier, okay? That doesn’t help you or the fish.”

Crowley made a face. “Definitely don’t like this metaphor.”

* * *

There was a small detail Crowley had overlooked when he’d agreed to go with Aziraphale to Tadfield, and that was his job. Red Red was going to be closed on the actual holiday, but that still left the two days around it, and he’d been scheduled for full shifts both days.

His manager stared at him like he’d kicked their puppy. “We’re expecting Christmas Eve to be the busiest night of the month! I can give you the 26th off, no problem, but the 24th...”

“Look, I haven’t taken an extra day or switched my schedule around since I started, right?”

They nodded, though they didn’t look happy about it.

“And I’m — I’m a good employee. I don’t want to brag about it, but —” He waved a hand vaguely. “I don’t screw around. I’m not asking this on, on a whim, like.”

“We’re gonna be slammed, Anthony. We need you.”

Crowley gave them as level a look as he could through the glasses. “This is the thing. My extremely gorgeous boyfriend, who I have _just_ started dating, has asked me to Christmas with his family. I’ll work three weeks straight if you want me to, after I get back, but — just let me have this, okay? This one thing.”

His manager sighed. “Dammit, you’re killing me. Fine. Maybe I can get Mamta in.” They scribbled Crowley’s name out from the schedule. “Had no idea you were dating. He anyone we’d know around here?”

“No, but...” Crowley grinned. “You ever hear the rumor that there’s a bookshop owner in Soho who’s secretly in the mob?”

“Oh, yeah, the shop that’s been around for ages, and the guy who runs it now doesn’t actually...”

Crowley grinned a little harder.

“_Him_?”

“Yyyep.”

“Holy Christ, Anthony. Yeah. Yeah, you can have off whatever days you want. No way I’m pissing that guy off.”

* * *

It snowed while Aziraphale was gone, just enough to stick for an hour or two before melting in the weak December sun. Crowley took a walk while it lasted. No real reason. It was nice to get out for a bit, and he could tell Aziraphale about it later. Could even send him the selfie he’d taken, fluffy tan scarf tucked around his chin, keeping him warm and safe and extremely fucking unfashionable.

He’d worn a proper coat, because he wasn’t about to get scolded for irresponsibly coming down with something, but his right side had still felt cold. There should have been an angel beside him. Big and soft and cozy, cuddled up as close as he was willing to be that day. Crowley would take a round waist under his arm, or plump hands tucked into his elbow, or a single hand in his. Or just Aziraphale’s presence, their arms swinging close enough to brush now and then, and nothing more.

He just wanted Aziraphale. That was all. But Aziraphale was in Amsterdam, chasing his books, so Crowley walked through the thin crust of snow alone.

In the end he sent several photos, of snow clean and sparkling on a tree, a fire hydrant, the roofs of shops across the street. The selfie was the last one. Sunglasses pushed up onto his head for a moment, crooked smile barely visible above the hideous scarf. Eyes too soft, too long-lashed, the shape of bone around them too delicate; but he’d sent it anyway, and when Aziraphale’s response came in a couple hours later, it’d been worth it.

_I’m a little sorry to have missed the snow. It looks absolutely lovely. Thank you so much for sharing it with me._

_welcome angel_, he’d replied. _wish u were here to see it. miss you_

There wasn’t anything for a couple of minutes, and then his phone buzzed again.

_And you’re lovely too, dear. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anything more beautiful than your eyes._

Crowley felt his face go warm, felt a familiar ache in his throat, although the next message still made him laugh. _Unless it’s the sight of you dressing appropriately for the weather. Thank goodness you won’t catch your death of cold before I can get back._

_i promise to still be alive on tuesday_

Aziraphale’s reply came in two parts. The first was just _Good_. One word, dashed off immediately.

The second was a little slower to come in, and it was even shorter. One heart emoji.

* * *

It was a long time until Tuesday.

* * *

Crowley pulled the Bentley up outside the shop, to where a space waited, empty, just for him. He sent a quick _im here_ text as he climbed out. Ambled around curbside, trying not to fuss with his clothing too much, then leaned against her to wait.

He’d done his research. He knew how he’d need to dress, had some idea how he’d need to act for what he had planned; he’d at least somewhat look the part, in the new jacket and shirt and trousers he’d blown out his budget to buy. All carefully matched blacks, except for the collar of the jacket. That matched his dark red tie.

He was taking Aziraphale to his favorite restaurant, to the one place in London that he knew his angel loved, yet where they’d never been together. Where Crowley had never been at all. Where he didn’t belong, not the slightest bit — but by God, he’d fake it for Aziraphale. Give him the best welcome-home gift he could possibly come up with.

The shop door opened.

When Aziraphale stepped outside, his curls glowed in the noontime sun. _Everything_ glowed. The cars, and the people, and the sign above the door. And Aziraphale. So fucking beautiful in his stupid waistcoat and his stupid topcoat and his stupid tartan bow tie. The sun lit him up golden, lingering on every inch of him. The most beautiful man in England, right there, hazel eyes going wide, sweet mouth curving with delight.

“Oh — _Crowley_, is that —”

Crowley grinned big enough to hurt. “Get in, angel. I’m taking you for a ride.”

Aziraphale’s smile was enough to put the goddamn sun to shame as he turned to lock up, then started across the pavement. He paused, though, halfway across. Just for a half-second, but when he continued, the smile had slipped into softly parted lips and wide eyes.

“Oh,” he said, as he stopped a few feet away. “My dear, you...”

His eyes very obviously tracked Crowley up and down, and his round cheeks darkened maybe a little bit more than could be blamed on the cold. “You look so _handsome_, darling. I — oh my goodness.”

Crowley felt his own face going warm. “Here,” he muttered, opening the passenger door. “Got your surprise to get to.”

“But you’re dressed up so nicely; I’m sure I’m not in a state for wherever —”

Crowley left the door open, closing the distance to Aziraphale and taking his hands. He pressed his lips to one cheek, nuzzling against the tender skin. “You’re perfect. Wanted to — to look good for you. But you already look perfect.”

Aziraphale squeezed his hands. “I missed you, Crowley. I missed...”

“Yeah?”

There was a deep sigh. Then Aziraphale’s hands twisted in his, pulling them around to his sides. Resting them against his coat, just above his extremely well-named love handles. They let go, and as Crowley’s fingers pressed into the softness there, heavy arms crept around his neck.

“I missed you holding me,” Aziraphale murmured. “As if you wanted to.”

Crowley sucked in a painful breath. “God, you have no idea how much. No idea. Can I kiss you?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” he replied, and buried his own whimper against Aziraphale’s lips. His arms wrapped around, holding, cherishing; God, he never wanted to let go, never ever —

Aziraphale melted into him, warm and longing, and Crowley stumbled backwards, unable to stand on his own, let alone with all of that glorious weight. It was fine, though, because the Bentley was there. He fell back against her with Aziraphale cradled safe in his arms, all of him right there, just where he belonged. Round hands twisted gently in his hair as Aziraphale’s lungs stole his breath, gave it back again changed, transmuted into something better than air, more necessary than oxygen.

“‘M gonna. Dress like this every day,” he panted, once his own lungs had finally convinced him to maybe go back to the oxygen again. “If this’s what I get out of it. Can prob’ly dress even more like. Like a posh arsehole. If you want. Just say the word.”

He cupped his hands against Aziraphale’s back, feeling the shape of him beneath his clothing, all dips and curves and heavenly padding. “God, you’re so beautiful.”

“_You_ are a _vision_,” Aziraphale husked against his shoulder. “I don’t understand how I can be here right now. You’re so wonderful, Crowley... so good and kind...”

“Stop,” he muttered weakly.

“And so very handsome.” Aziraphale wiggled against him, and Crowley felt actual tears sting at his eyes. “The most handsome man I have ever seen.”

When Crowley kissed him again, it was brief, just a press of closed lips. Just enough to stop the compliments before they killed him.

“Your surprise,” he croaked, tears still in his eyes and lumped up in his throat and God, he loved Aziraphale. “Should get going. Don’t wanna be late.”

Aziraphale nodded, then laughed weakly. “You’ll have to let me go, dear.”

“Shit. Flaw in my plan.”

Crowley unwrapped himself from Aziraphale, although when he realized how cold it was with his arms empty again, he almost asked if he could change his mind. But no. He’d promised a surprise, and he wouldn’t lie.

He held the door open. “After you, pretty angel.”

Aziraphale smiled at him, seeming almost shy as he put one hand on the roof of the car. He went up on his toes just long enough to peck Crowley on the cheek. Then he climbed in, the very first person to sit in the passenger seat of Anthony Crowley’s Bentley, and hopefully also the second, and the third, and the million-and-twelfth.

Crowley very carefully waited until he was in and settled before closing the door.

He drove just as carefully through central London, not wanting to risk anything that might interrupt his plan. The Bentley could go faster than this, he knew damn well she could... but not today. Today he kept just under the speed limit as he drove a circuitous path through the streets. Even drove past their destination once, which he thought was very clever of him.

Finally he pulled up to the valet parking zone, leaving the car running just like Google had told him to do.

Aziraphale looked out the window and back at him. He looked completely shocked, so much so that he didn’t seem to be able to say anything except Crowley’s name. Then a smile started to dawn over his pretty face, lighting him up like the roundest sun in Crowley’s sky.

Crowley felt himself not grinning or smirking but _beaming_, and did absolutely nothing to stop it. He leaned casually on the steering wheel as one of the Ritz’s valets approached. “Let me tempt you to a spot of lunch?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Hope you're still doing well. <3


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A complication arises regarding the upcoming Christmas trip to visit the Youngs in Tadfield. Also, gaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter-specific warning notes:**
> 
>   * Brief reference to possibility of being pressured into sex, although of course it doesn’t happen in the text, ilu my ace fam
>   * Internalized fatphobia. ilu also my beautiful fat fam and I promise the chapter ends in softness.
>   * The word "fat" is used, but never, ever negatively, because this is the Soft Zone(TM)
> 
> **Also I would like everyone to know that this story now has lovely art** drawn by Squeegeelicious! You can find my Tumblr reblog, with a bunch of yelling about things I love in the tags, [here](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/189282541139/squeegeelicious-a-walk-to-the-ritz-for).

“_What_.”

Nattie stopped staring at him, apparently because something had just become very interesting on the other side of the room. “Okay, I know you’re probably, I don’t know, bound to secrecy or something...”

“Bet there’s like a blood oath,” Ty deadpanned.

“But you can still tell us whether he is, right? Like, even a hint?”

Ty snorted. “What, like blink once for yes, twice for no?”

Crowley, whose eyes were still very much hidden behind the sunglasses, uttered an extremely noisy sigh. No need to ask who they were talking about. The problem with dating a fixture of local gossip — if there could ever be said to be any problem at all with dating Aziraphale, which obviously there fucking well could not, so never mind — the _thing_ about dating a fixture of local gossip was that you ended up being gossip yourself.

Nattie was convinced that Crowley knew all of Aziraphale’s dark Mafia secrets, and that he was just holding out on them out of either misplaced loyalty, fear, or spite. Ty still disagreed on Aziraphale’s criminal status, although he was just as plugged into the rumor mill. At least Aksha and Eric were above the whole thing. Eric was about five minutes away from docking everyone a couple XP at any given time, though.

“I told you, it’s a... legal... trust... thing. Pays for the shop and its owner in perpe... perpetual thingy.”

“Okay, but what does that even mean?” Nattie said.

“Hell if I know.” Crowley looked at Eric. “Can I roll persuasion on the gazebo?”

“You know what? Yes. Roll persuasion on the goddamn gazebo. At least someone’s almost on topic here.”

Nattie went on while Crowley dug for his lucky Doing Something Stupid Just To Annoy Eric die. “I hear he was out of town for almost a week. Last-minute and extremely mysterious and come on, Crowley, was it, like, a hit? Was he doing a hit?”

That got a laugh out of him, a genuine head-thrown-back whoop. His soft little angel, jetting off in the night to murder someone... sure. Sure, and then he’d swear off tartan. Then he’d go out for dinner and refuse dessert. He’d sell all his books at quarter-price.

“No,” he wheezed, once he could. Wiped tears from his eyes, still laughing. “He was buying books, you idiots. I saw the damn things after he got back.” To Eric: “Sixteen, by the way.”

“Persuasion fails. It’s a _gazebo_, Crowley.”

Ty cleared his throat. “You know like half of Soho is talking about you, uh, _welcoming_ him back, right?”

Crowley made some confused noises.

“Crowley.” Nattie leaned across the table. “The hot boyfriend was seen driving up in a really expensive-looking car which there is _no way_ you can afford working as a waiter, and then they made out against the car for a while before driving away to God knows where. And then the next morning the shop opens again like everything’s normal.” She fixed his glasses with an imploring look. “You know we’re your friends, right? You can tell us if — if you’re mixed up in some kind of gang thing —”

There was something simultaneously embarrassing and thrilling about the idea that his welcome-home kiss with Aziraphale was that famous. He wanted everyone to know how lucky he was, wanted to take out a goddamn billboard bragging about how he’d landed the most wonderful creature to ever grace the Earth... but on the other hand, it was kind of weird that strangers were _talking_ about it.

“Not mixed up. No gang thing.” He looked at Aksha. “Gurlington’s a man of science. Any ideas for gazebo experiments?”

She hid a smile behind her drink. “Think Eric would probably prefer we move on, actually...”

“Wow. Cannot imagine what that’s like.”

He gave Nattie his best sunglasses glare, but that didn’t stop her from trying one more time.

“At least tell us you haven’t been, like, initiated into the Families or something. That isn’t where you guys went, is it? Some kind of secret meeting?”

Aksha caught Crowley’s eye. “We, uh, we all keep walking across the garden toward the lake. Ignoring the gazebo or any other, um, distractions. Right, Archdevil?”

“Yep. Lake. Just like the villagers told us.” Crowley tipped back in his chair. “And we went to lunch, for the record, had a bloody wonderful time, so glad you asked, so glad you’re showing an interest. After lunch we went back to his shop and he showed me his new books. And then,” he set his chair back down with a thud, “_then_ I kissed him. About a billion times, not that I was keeping count. He’s an amazing kisser. Fucking phenomenal. So go ahead and tell your half-of-Soho _that_, if they’re so damn hungry for Bookshop Boyfriend content.”

Silence settled awkwardly over everything for a few seconds. When he figured they’d had enough, Crowley picked up his Annoying Eric die again. “Can I try to punch the lake?”

* * *

When Crowley slammed through the bookshop door that afternoon, there were two regulars in evidence. Rosa the grad student was leafing through a textbook in a corner, this time with both a mug of something _and_ a blanket tucked around her shoulders.

Keith the kid with a shitty home life, meanwhile, was napping in one of the uncomfortable-looking armchairs. He didn’t have a mug, but there was an empty coaster on the table beside him. His blanket was one of the tartan ones.

Crowley grabbed the door so it wouldn’t bang shut. Good thing he’d noticed the sleeping kid before yelling for Aziraphale.

Bag, coat, and stupid cozy scarf all hung up, he sauntered toward the back. Aziraphale was probably in... no, not the back room, and not the office either. Time to wander the stacks, then. Listen for books thudding on shelves, or heavy-yet-careful footsteps, or...

Crowley’s heart did one of its happy little wobbles that he hoped he never, ever got used to. He could hear a quiet “bum-bum-bum”, the tune of some boring classical thing, in a soft, cultured, and beautifully fussy voice. Aziraphale only sang to himself like that when he was in an especially good mood. And a good mood meant that as soon as Crowley found the right path through this ridiculous maze, he’d be rewarded with the sight of a gleefully beaming angel, and probably some very enthusiastic kisses.

Aziraphale was by far the best kisser he’d ever had the pleasure of evaluating. He hadn’t been lying to his gaming mates about that.

He was nearly there, probably, when there was a chiming sound.

“Oh, bother...” he heard Aziraphale mutter, followed by a rustling. “Dierdre! Hello, dear! ...yes, of course...”

Right. Phone call. And he didn’t really want to listen in like some kind of creeper, but then he heard footsteps, and Aziraphale wandered into view, cellphone to one ear. He saw Crowley right away, face lighting up every bit as adorably as expected.

“Oh, yes.” His gray eyes twinkled at Crowley. “Yes, we’re both looking forward to it.”

Crowley grinned. Visiting Aziraphale’s family. The rest of his family. Yes, looking very forward to that, as a matter of fact. Couldn’t fucking wait.

“...ah. Yes, I... I see. What, ah, what’s wrong with the sofa, then...? Oh. Oh, yes, that does make sense.”

The twinkle was gone now. The conversation went on a few minutes longer, and when Aziraphale hung up, he barely seemed to have the energy to drop his phone back in his pocket.

Crowley moved toward him. “Aziraphale...?”

“I’m sorry, my dear. Could —” He put one hand on Crowley’s shoulder, going up on tiptoe just long enough for one kiss. His delicate lips slotted against Crowley’s as perfectly as always, and he let out a familiar little hum when Crowley kissed him back. But he kept what seemed like a very careful distance between them. “Could you give me a moment, please? I have to — to —”

Aziraphale shook his head, apparently lost for words, then disappeared toward the back.

There was a dull knocking sound which Crowley realized was just his own heart, hurling itself against his ribs. _You did it, didn’t you_, it whispered to him between rib-bashings. _Actually had him a whole five weeks, and now you do something to lose him. Or he just wised up. What you wanted all along, anyway, and better late than never._

He could almost _feel_ Lara glaring at him. Fuck. Fine. He’d count to a hundred and then go find Aziraphale and maybe get an idea what was actually going on instead of just assuming. This once.

After a hundred-and-twenty count, he tracked Aziraphale to the office. Standing in the middle of the room, facing the door, one arm against his chest and the other fist pressed to his mouth. He raised his eyes to Crowley, and they were... not scared. Couldn’t be that. Crowley had to be imagining it.

“Shut the door, please, dear?”

Crowley hadn’t taken off his sunglasses yet, and he was suddenly very glad. He did as he was asked.

He stared at Aziraphale for a while. Aziraphale looked at the floor. His expression only got more... whatever it was.

“I’d thought,” he said abruptly. “At Dierdre’s home, I’d thought... they have a very lovely guest room, and you would sleep there. I would have taken the sofa. It folds out into a perfectly serviceable bed. Or it did.”

Crowley waited.

“They have apparently purchased new furniture since I was there last. The new sofa does not fold out.” Aziraphale looked up at him then. His eyes were dry, but they also still had that frightened look. “She expects that we will share the guest bed.”

There was a sudden flare of hurt in Crowley’s chest. “I’m not going to... Aziraphale, you can’t think that I would... would try to, what, _initiate_ something...”

Aziraphale dropped his hand, looking shocked. “Of course not! That isn’t what —” He took one step closer, then seemed to remember himself. “I have no fears about that, darling. None at all.”

“So what, then?” He hadn’t even thought about the accommodations, hadn’t thought that they might — might actually share a bed — but the idea of doing that, of getting to hold him, God, _holding Aziraphale while he slept_ and knowing that he’d never have to do the other thing...

The pain in his chest this time was something fierce and longing. “If you don’t want to. To do this, I. Can sleep on their sofa even if it’s not a bed. Whatever you want.” He realized his hands were back in his pockets again. “Whatever you want, angel.”

Aziraphale’s hands clasped each other. “What I want,” he said, very quietly, “is to be happy about this development.”

Crowley winced.

“Or to believe that you could be. I want to believe that you’d be happy at the idea of waking up next to me. Of falling asleep with me. Of perhaps putting your arms...”

Silence for seconds, hours, years, and Crowley could barely stop himself from offering up his arms right fucking now.

“I want to feel as though we could both be happy having that level of... intimacy. Without, well.” He unclasped his hands, then laid them, shaking, against his own wide middle. “Without this getting in the way.”

The silence this time stretched millennia.

“Getting.” Crowley swallowed. “Getting in the way. My God. You still think I look at you and I see — I don’t see —” Why wouldn’t the words come, dammit? “‘S no problem here. Not for me. I swear.”

Aziraphale’s eyes weren’t dry anymore. “Ah. You mean that you don’t... don’t see my fat when you look at me. Yes? You only see me.”

Crowley took off his sunglasses, tossing them in the general direction of the desk, not particularly caring whether they made it or not. “Aziraphale. Did someone actually _say_ that to you? Before?”

Aziraphale nodded, face twisting. A tear tracked down one cheek.

“Angel. Angel, no.” Crowley crossed to him, putting careful hands on his shoulders. He kissed away the tear, and the one that followed. “I see all of you, pretty angel. And I adore it. All your fat. Every one of the bits someone decided weren’t good enough, but. But it’s all _you_, Aziraphale, it’s all part of you. Which means it’s perfect.”

He brushed his lips against the underside of Aziraphale’s jaw, against the soft hang of flesh there. “I see your chins. Plural. And I love them. They just frame your face so — so goddamn _adorably_. And when you — you decide you want something from me, right, and you give me one of those little pouts, and you tuck your head down just a bit — fuck, you get this little crease right here —” Crowley traced his thumb along the spot — “and it _breaks_ me, okay. I would do anything in that moment, you have complete power over me, and. And now you know it. I’m admitting it right here.”

Aziraphale’s eyes were very wide, and he was blushing harder than Crowley could remember ever having seen before. But he didn’t interrupt.

“Your hands are so soft.” He took one of them, lifting it to his lips, kissing the inside of the wrist. “Never known anyone with hands like yours. They’re so round they’ve got dimples, how is it even fair for them to be that cute, they’re just _hands_. They feel so good to hold. They’re perfect. I see them, I see how soft and fat they are. And they’re perfect.”

Crowley took a deep breath. This was the important part. They both knew what the most noticeable feature of Aziraphale’s body was, and how Crowley was supposed to view that feature. They’d both spent their lives in the same fucked-up culture.

He hovered his palms over Aziraphale’s belly, not touching yet. Waiting for permission. After a moment, the hands he’d just finished praising moved, trembling, to his wrists. They drew his own bony hands forward, pressing them against the waistcoat before falling away again.

Crowley let his hands trace gentle circles into that perfect form.

“Course I see your fat when I look at you. ’S all just you. How could I not love every single part of you? You really expect me to, to not see this belly? To not love it?” Crowley watched his hands move over the wide curve of velvet, not trusting himself to be able to maintain eye contact and still be coherent. “Feel the same way about it that I do about the rest of you. I don’t care how big it is, don’t care how fat you are. Always be the exact right amount. Because it’s you.”

Aziraphale didn’t say anything, and Crowley was afraid to meet his eyes. Probably that had been too much. Almost certainly that had been too much. He should stop caressing Aziraphale’s round beautiful belly and slink off somewhere in shame.

But then Aziraphale brought his shaking hands to Crowley’s, and gathered them up to his lips. Crowley was just barely able to force his eyes up in time to watch Aziraphale press a kiss to his jutting knuckles.

Tears were spilling down Aziraphale’s cheeks again, but he was smiling.

“I love you.”

Crowley gaped. No. He hadn’t heard right. His stomach flipped giddily, his heart started slamming against his ribs hard enough to shake his entire body, but it was a mistake. Aziraphale could not possibly have said — 

“Crowley. Dearest.”

“Umnuh?”

Aziraphale reached out to stroke his cheek. “I love you.”

“Oh,” Crowley said, his voice very small.

Then he collapsed against Aziraphale, scrabbling desperately at his shirt, burying his face in the soft crook of his neck. “You,” he half-sobbed, “only you. Forever and ever, angel, just you. I lo — I l —” He worked his fingers tighter into the fabric, feeling Aziraphale’s arms surround him. “_Forever_.”

Aziraphale held him close. Shuddered out one breath, raw and ragged, then pulled another one in. “Oh yes,” he whispered, voice choked. “Yes, please. Forever.”

* * *

When Aziraphale went to gently evict his not-customers at the end of the day, it was with flushed cheeks and a dreamy little smile. Crowley drifted along behind, staying just out of hearing range, but near enough to at least pick up the sound of voices. Of Aziraphale’s little giggle at something Rosa said.

Fuck, he loved that giggle. Did Aziraphale like knock-knock jokes? Crowley knew a lot of knock-knock jokes.

The door closed one last time, followed by the sounds of the locks being turned. Aziraphale came back to find him in the random place where he’d ended up. “I love you,” he said yet again, pulling Crowley’s arms around his waist.

“So much, angel,” Crowley mumbled. “Love —”

He squeezed his arms around Aziraphale, drawing him in close, letting his head rest against one plump cheek. “Words’re too big. Can’t say ‘em. Feel ‘em, though.”

“Hmm. Do you think they’ll ever get smaller?”

Crowley jolted back at that, staring at him with genuine offense. “Fucking _never_.”

“Ah. Well.” Aziraphale traced his fingers over Crowley’s lips, that dreamy smile back on his face again. “I suppose you could show it to me other ways, if you were particularly inclined.”

Crowley, of course, was inclined. And the kisses were, as he’d been hoping when he’d first stopped by, extremely enthusiastic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love all you guys. You know that, right?
> 
> **Important scheduling note!** Thursday is going to be American Thanksgiving, and I am going to be posting something on that day, but it won't be a chapter of INNW. We'll continue with chapter 16 on Monday, December 2. I'll post a canonverse standalone on Thursday instead -- not sure which yet, because I'd like it to be [this story](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/tagged/ifof%3A-the-one-with-arms), but I'm not sure I'll finish in time. If it isn't, I'll pull something out of my Not Yet Posted folder.
> 
> Finally: I did not, initially, name a character in the gaming group "Eric" because I was thinking of [Eric and the Gazebo](https://www.netfunny.com/rhf/jokes/98/Jul/gazebo.html). I actually did it half because I follow an Eric on Tumblr and half because of Eric the Disposable Demon. But when I was trying to think of something silly for Crowley to do, I remembered Eric Sorenson's epic battle, and, well. I went from there.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale are off to visit the Youngs. There is a little bit of an incident.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter-specific warning notes:** the word "fat" is used, but never, ever negatively, because this is the Soft Zone(TM).

The day before Christmas was bright and cold. A sign on the front door of A.Z. Fell’s noted, in a long paragraph of cramped handwriting, that the shop would be closed until Monday.

Crowley stopped just long enough to read it, and when he pushed his way through the door, he was laughing. God, Aziraphale was ridiculous. Adorably ridiculous.

“Angel!” Stupid cozy soft scarf on a hook of the coat rack. Coat on another. Juggling the scalding cup in his hand the whole time. “You’re awake, yeah? Know I’m a little early, but...”

He heard a distant “Crowley?” from somewhere in the maze. When he attempted to follow it, though, he realized he could hear a creaking from upstairs. Footsteps. Aziraphale was still up in the flat, apparently. Maybe he was even earlier then he’d thought.

Crowley had never actually been in Aziraphale’s flat. He knew about it, of course — the owner of the shop always lived there, maintained by the trust, same as the shop itself — so presumably Aziraphale’s grandparents had lived there before, and Aziraphale himself, when he’d been a kid. Now it was just his angel’s, and Crowley had never been up.

Aziraphale would ask him up when he was ready. They had the back room meanwhile, and honestly the entire shop. And when they wanted to get out of here, there was Crowley’s flat. Or St. James’s Park, or any of a hundred restaurants and cafes and charming little patisseries. Plenty of options.

Aziraphale would let down that boundary when he was ready.

Crowley found a table for the cup, then leaned on the spiraling rail. “Good morning,” he called up. “Gonna reorganize your biographies while I wait. Sound good?”

“You absolute terror, you know perfectly well I just finished moving those!” Aziraphale’s voice floated down, muffled but still perfectly audible, and Crowley smiled because he didn’t know what else to do with the huge warm feeling in his chest.

“Got a short attention span. Need to be entertained. You know that.”

“Much to my regret, yes.” Footsteps moved toward the stairs. “Sorting them by color, I suppose? Number of pages?”

“Was thinking alphabetical by third...”

Crowley made the mistake of looking up.

“...word.”

Aziraphale descended slowly, fiddling with the cuff of one sleeve. “You’re simply the worst, Crowley. I’ve no idea why I put up with you.”

“‘S cause you love that I’m an idiot.” Crowley mumbled the words, not really paying attention anymore. “Um. What’re you, uh...?”

“I,” Aziraphale said with great dignity, “am distracting you from my poor books.”

“Right,” Crowley said, and then Aziraphale was on him, arms gentle around his shoulders, lips dusting a kiss against the corner of his mouth. Arms up like that meant Aziraphale was currently okay with having his own middle held from the front, and Crowley was _miles_ past just okay with making that happen. Extremely happy to put his own arms around the blue shirt, buttoned up properly just like always, topped off with the eternal bow tie... but with no waistcoat.

Crowley’s hands rubbed Aziraphale’s back, just thin fabric between him and all that delightful padding. “Hi, angel. Like the casual look. Can almost see forearm. Very tempting.”

Aziraphale was maybe trying to glare at him. “You interrupted my getting dressed. I’m obviously not going like this.”

“Obviously.” Crowley landed a quick kiss on the smiling curve of his cheek. “What would the neighbors think?” Another kiss, this one against the swell of double chin, earning a giggle. “Or the Soho rumor mill. Imagine what they’d have to say about me getting you down to a button-up.”

“They won’t be saying anything, because I am going back upstairs just as soon as I’ve done this.”

One hand wandered into Crowley’s hair, not actually pulling his head down, since Crowley had already clued in and was taking care of that himself. Aziraphale was the perfect height for kissing. Of course he was. Just short enough that he had to tilt his head up, that Crowley had to lean his own head down. Meant that Crowley could start things off right with that pretty face beaming up at him.

He felt very distracted from the books by the time they were done. Still kind of wanted to threaten them with rearrangement, but he wanted to look at Aziraphale more. Pink-cheeked, and bright-eyed, and breathless. Beautiful.

“Will you promise to behave yourself for five minutes, love?”

“Hgrlk.”

“I will take that as a yes.” 

Aziraphale withdrew himself from Crowley’s arms, which was terrible; except Crowley’s brain was still mostly shut down from being called _love_, so he was saved from really having to process it.

What wasn’t shut down was more or less claimed by the sight of Aziraphale in this kind of undress. Round body not quite so perfectly round without the waistcoat covering it. There was a dip on either side, between his love handles and the fullest part of his belly, something Crowley had felt with wondering hands before but never really been able to see. It was like that wherever Aziraphale’s softness pressed gently against his shirt. Faint hints of bumps and rolls and curves which had always been masked beneath the thicker layer of clothing.

The entire shape of him was just... different, somehow. Beautiful. Absolutely fucking beautiful.

“Angel?”

He didn’t realize he’d spoken until Aziraphale stopped. “Yes, dear?”

“Can I, um...” He slunk closer, keeping behind Aziraphale. Put his hands out to either side of him. “Or not today?”

There was a long silence while Aziraphale considered. Then he shook his head. “Once I’ve finished dressing, then yes. But not like this.”

Crowley retrieved his hands. “Sure. Get dressed. I promise not to mess with your books.”

“Alphabetical by third word.” Aziraphale shook his head as he started back up. “Goodness. The customers would simply hate it.”

“See? Great idea.”

The high giggle that echoed down the stairs was the most fucking musical thing Crowley had ever heard. 

When Aziraphale came down again, light brown waistcoat buttoned up over his shirt, Crowley handed him the cup he’d brought in. “Almost forgot. Sipping chocolate from that place down the street. Should be just cool enough to drink by now.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured. “You really are too much sometimes.”

He hopped up just long enough to deliver a single closed-mouth kiss. Then he turned so that his back was to Crowley, drink held in both hands. Waiting.

Crowley hummed happily as he snaked his arms around Aziraphale’s waist. Snuggled up against his back, cheek pressed to his white curls.

His hands flattened against the front of Aziraphale’s belly, fat and wide and heavy. Exactly right. It’d always be exactly right.

Aziraphale took a sip of his hot chocolate, then leaned his head back on Crowley’s shoulder. And Crowley held him, hands gently cradling his belly, until it was time for them to go.

* * *

It had only been a couple of weeks since Crowley had recovered the Bentley, so there hadn’t been much opportunity to really show Aziraphale what she could do. But there was a long drive out to Tadfield, with roads not too different from the ones he’d gone flying down years ago. He’d edged her up past 90 not long after they got off the M40.

Aziraphale was less than appreciative.

“Crowley!” he yelped, scrabbling at the dash, at the inside of the door. “Good Lord, you’re going to get us both killed!”

“Nah, I’ve driven like this loads of times. Haven’t died yet.”

“That doesn’t mean —” Aziraphale flinched as they barrelled past a car going the other way. "Slow _down_, you idiot, I won’t have you risking your life like this!”

Crowley rolled his eyes, but slowed down to 75.

“Honestly. I had no idea you were such a — a speed demon.” Aziraphale gave him a prickly look, then made a show of straightening out his clothing. “Do you drive like that normally, then?”

Crowley slouched harder. “Sometimes.”

“Well, I really wish you wouldn’t.”

“‘Well, I really wish you wouldn’t’,” Crowley muttered back.

There was silence for a few minutes, other than general road noises, and Queen playing quietly from Crowley’s phone.

A hand settled, light and tentative, on his shoulder.

“I suppose we were bound to argue about something eventually, darling.”

“Don’t want to argue,” Crowley said. “Want to — to hold you and tell you I lo... ...you know. And drive really fast.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Do you know what I would do if you were to... if something were to happen to you? Do you know what that would do to me?”

Something prickled at the back of Crowley’s throat. “No.”

“Neither do I.”

Crowley slowed down to just over the speed limit, then took Aziraphale’s hand in his. Pressed a lingering kiss to the back. “‘M sorry, angel. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Hands on the wheel, dearest. You can always apologize when we get there.”

His voice was fond, though, and he caressed Crowley’s cheek briefly before withdrawing his hand.

* * *

When they reached the Youngs’ home, Crowley hopped out and hurried around to the passenger side. He opened the door, gestured for Aziraphale to get out, then eased him very, very gently back against the side of the car. Hands on his broad chest, but bodies not quite touching yet.

Aziraphale looked confused. “Crowley, what —”

“We’re here. ‘M apologizing.”

Understanding broke through, bringing with it a blush and a little quirk of lips. “I’m fairly sure they’ll be able to see us from in the house... and there is a rather fanatical neighborhood watch...”

His hands were on Crowley’s waist, though, and he’d pulled them closer together. His soft body pressed up against Crowley exactly the way Crowley had literally dreamed about once. No need for dreaming anymore.

“Can.” Crowley leaned down. “Can apologize later. If you want.”

“Now is fine,” Aziraphale whispered against his lips.

Crowley slid his hands up around Aziraphale’s shoulders, and apologized very sincerely. 

* * *

Aziraphale’s whatevereth cousin twelfth removed was a pleasant enough woman, maybe five years younger than Aziraphale. Her husband Arthur was all right too, even if he did come off as the kind of bloke to’ve grown a moustache just to try to look slightly more like his actual age. And Adam, Aziraphale’s godson, was one of those kids who kind of just said whatever they were thinking. Even when it was weird stuff about Atlantis and dogs.

Crowley had gotten a tour of the house first thing. Adam had tagged along, making sure he got a good look at the back garden, and the woods beyond (“This is _my_ world,” he’d said, which was the kind of presumptuousness that Crowley admired in a kid). Awkward starting talk had been made about local sporting teams (Mr Young) or the weather (Mrs Young). Or the history of scurvy cures. That one was Adam. Mrs Young tried to make him stop bothering Crowley at first, until she’d realized that Crowley found the whole thing fascinating.

“Really?” he’d asked. “Sulfuric acid?”

Crowley spent the whole conversation on the loveseat to which Mrs Young had directed him after the tour. It was sort of itchy, and honestly a lot stiffer than Crowley thought a good sofa should be, and was covered in an unfortunate floral pattern that kind of looked like little dancing rats if you squinted a bit.

There was no way Crowley was moving from it any time soon, though. Aziraphale had also been directed to it, and he had almost immediately snuggled up to Crowley once they’d both sat down. Crowley had even more immediately put his arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders. And was it the best fucking thing in the world right then, him meeting his boyfriend’s family while his boyfriend cuddled soft and warm against his side? Of course it was. It was perfect. Everything was perfect.

“So, Crowley,” Mrs Young said brightly as she offered up a tray of biscuits. “Cousin Zira has told us a little bit about you, but really not as much as he should have. I don’t even think we know how you two met.”

“Oh, well, er.” Crowley looked at the biscuit in his hand. Tempting to just shove it in his mouth and avoid having to answer, but that wasn’t why he’d taken it. Plus Aziraphale was already occupied with nibbling at his own, which didn’t leave anyone else. “I mean, we _met_ back when I started working at this cafe back in... what, February? I just, just made him his coffee and got him his scones.”

“Oh,” Mrs Young said encouragingly.

“And... we just sort of started talking. Eventually.”

“_You_ started off by insulting me, as I recall.” Aziraphale’s eyes twinkled at him, brown in this light, and so unfairly pretty that Crowley was definitely going to call him on it later.

“I didn’t! I just, whuh, I misspoke!”

Aziraphale looked as though he was about to say something snarky, so Crowley deployed his biscuit. “Here you go, angel. All yours.”

“Hmph,” Aziraphale replied. He took the offering, though, and wiggled just a little closer to Crowley as he bit into it.

Mrs Young smiled at them, apparently satisfied with Crowley’s answer.

“Coffee’s not so great,” Adam observed. “I tried some of Dad’s once. Seems like it shouldn’t be something that’s good for people, tasting like that.”

Mr Young twitched his moustache. “Seems like you should leave that decision to the adults, young man.”

Crowley’s hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder trailed up his neck, wandering into his pale curls. The Youngs were distracted now; Adam was going on about some coffee-related conspiracy theory that Crowley was going to be interested in catching up on later. Nobody was watching him or Aziraphale. It was nice to have a little break from being the guest, the topic of interest.

“Really wasn’t insulting you,” he murmured. “Was just stupid.”

Aziraphale raised one eyebrow. “You certainly were. You’re lucky I didn’t start patronizing another cafe after that.”

That stopped Crowley, fingers stilling in Aziraphale’s hair. “You. You wouldn’t have...?”

Wouldn’t have quit showing up after that, if he’d been upset enough. Meaning that three days later, Crowley would have been left to take out the rubbish alone, with no round angel beside him, no shining white protection from the rain...

No Aziraphale in his life at all...

“What — darling, no, I wouldn’t have.” Aziraphale straightened up, laying a hand on Crowley’s shoulder, a concerned wrinkle between his brows. “Why, you look as though you’ve seen a ghost —” He raised his voice. “Dierdre? Would you please excuse us?”

Mrs Young looked up from the other conversation, developing a wrinkle not that different from Aziraphale’s. “Oh dear. Of course, Zira. And if you need anything...”

Aziraphale nodded. “Come along, Crowley. Let’s go upstairs, shall we? Sit quietly for a bit?”

He didn’t answer, but when Aziraphale stood and offered his hands, they were quickly taken. Crowley allowed himself to be led through the hallway, up the stairs, and into the guest room.

“Here’s the bed, dearest, please sit down. Shall I get you a glass of wa —”

Crowley’s arms shot around Aziraphale’s waist. No permission this time, and with him sitting on the bed and Aziraphale standing, it meant that his head was smashed directly into the wide belly, which was a huge fucking nope. Never without consent. Never fucking ever.

But he clenched his arms around Aziraphale now, tight enough to make Aziraphale stumble forward a step, to get a choked _oof_ sound out of him. Buried the side of his face in the warm ocean of softness. “I didn’t mean to,” he mumbled, “never ever meant to hurt you. Angel, please. I lo — gh — I didn’t _know_ —”

Aziraphale’s voice was strained. “All right, but please, could you perhaps...”

Crowley let go, sitting back on the mattress, almost falling over. God. He’d really done it now, hadn’t he. Violated practically every boundary Aziraphale had. Not worth trusting in the end. Not worth anything.

He squeezed his eyes shut behind his glasses. “Sorry. So sorry.”

There was a deep exhale which was not quite a sigh.

Then the bed shifted, creaking, as Aziraphale sat beside him. Right beside him. Already touching, hips and shoulders, and then when his weight on the mattress dipped Crowley toward him, Aziraphale put an arm around him and pulled him in even closer.

Crowley felt his opposite hand taken and placed on something curved and padded and wonderfully familiar.

“It’s all right, love.”

Crowley fought back a sob.

“I was only teasing. I didn’t realize that it would affect you like this.”

He sank into Aziraphale’s chest, raising his hand for the bare instant it took to toss his glasses aside so they wouldn’t dig into his face. “If you’d stopped,” he managed. “If I’d made you stop. I wouldn’t have ever seen you again.” He splayed his fingers against Aziraphale’s belly. When Aziraphale put his own hand gently on top, the sob was a lot harder to fight. “I would’ve ruined everything. Not even known.”

“I didn’t stop, darling. I wouldn’t have.” Aziraphale’s thumb brushed against his knuckles. “Do you really — darling. Dearest. Please.”

“Would’ve been all my fault.”

“_Beloved_,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley shivered. “I knew you weren’t cruel. I already knew that. You’d had more than enough opportunity to show me otherwise.”

Crowley shook his head. “Didn’t need to mean being cruel. Still was.”

“I wish I could show you your own expression once you’d realized.” Aziraphale’s arm around his shoulder moved to his hair. “You looked like you wanted to bite off your own tongue.”

“Angel, I lo — I — _fuck_.”

Aziraphale’s voice was hardly more than a rumble in his throat. “You don’t need to say it. I know.”

“Love you.”

The softness beneath him swelled with a sudden breath.

“L — love you lots. All I can.” Crowley snuggled against him, one arm going around his back, the other hand circling his belly, finding a perch on the far side of it, resting there like it belonged. Which it did. This was exactly where he belonged. “Not as much as you deserve, though.”

Aziraphale’s arms around his shoulders pulled him in so tenderly that it would have killed him to even _dream_ of resisting. “I’m so very in love with you, Crowley. I hope you realize that.”

Crowley nodded.

“Would you like to lie down for a little while? Have a rest?”

“If — if you don’t leave.” His fingers tightened briefly against the waistcoat. “If you stay here.”

Aziraphale hummed quietly. “I can sit beside you and read a book. All right?”

“Sure. Yes.”

“I’ll have to get up to fetch one, then.”

Crowley breathed in deep, filling his lungs with Aziraphale. With his cologne, and the clean smell of his shirt, and something else that was maybe just him.

Gentle arms squeezed him before falling away. Crowley flopped over so he was lying on the bed, watching as Aziraphale rooted through one of the bags on the floor, coming up with some fucking ancient tome that put Crowley halfway to sleep just looking at it.

“You don’t need anything else, dear?”

“Just you, angel.”

Aziraphale’s eyes brightened, and his mouth twitched in a crooked little smile. He blinked rapidly and the moment passed. “Well. You have me, so.”

He fussed with the pillows, getting them piled up against the headboard, presumably to his liking. When he sat down, the mattress sank again under his weight, and Crowley shuffled close enough to end up fallen against one broad hip.

He pressed his forehead against the fabric of Aziraphale’s trousers, curled up with his hands tucked to his chest, and closed his eyes.

There was a whispery sound of paper. A plump hand gave his hair a brief tousle.

“Rest well, my only.”

“Angel,” Crowley said again, the word drawn out into a sigh. He didn’t sleep, then, but only lay there with his eyes closed, listening to the pages turning. To Aziraphale’s slow hush of breath.

To the sound of his own heart, still sick at how tenuous all this felt. But quiet, for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Programming note: I am doing at least some of [drawlight's Advent prompts](https://drawlight.tumblr.com/post/189391982184/drawlight-drawlight-aziraphale-crowley-for) this month, but they won't replace INNW scheduling! We are still on for chapter 17 this Thursday, 18 and 19 next week, and 20 and 21 the week after. Following that is Christmas week, and I'll have to figure out what I'm doing then. I don't have anything going on (it's just me and my personal platonic Crowley quietly sitting at home, as always), but I know a lot of y'all do.
> 
> Tune in Thursday the 5th, when I reference the existence of Oingo Boingo!


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rest of Christmas Eve at the Youngs'. When it comes time to sleep, there is, in fact, still only one bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter-specific warning notes:**
> 
>   * Internalized transphobia/gender dysphoria
>   * Internalized fatphobia, _including one use of the word “fat” coming from Aziraphale_, but it’s as Soft as I can make it. ilu my fat fam and you're all beautiful and wonderful and always will be no matter the size or shape of your body <3
>   * Several other uses of the word "fat" which are all loving

Eventually, Crowley felt ready to open his eyes again. All he saw was beige trousers, but they were Aziraphale’s, and that made them the best beige trousers in the world.

He stretched out one hand, resting it against the side of Aziraphale’s leg. “Hi.”

There was the thud of a book closing. “Hello, dear.”

“I like your family,” Crowley said to the trousers. “They’re not arseholes to each other. ‘S nice.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “You certainly have high standards, don’t you.”

“I mean. I’ve told you about my mum.”

“Yes.” The hand was back in Crowley’s hair, now, gently ruffling.

“Haven’t told you about my dad.”

“No.” Ruffling changed to petting. Like Crowley was a cat. “Your standards have precedent, is what I’m hearing.”

“‘S just. Relaxing. No one’s worried about saying the wrong thing. Getting in the way.” Crowley considered the trousers for a moment. “And they treat _you_ right. Care about you. That’s most important. Your cousin was really happy to see you when she opened the door, and all.”

Aziraphale’s hand maybe stuttered in his hair midway through that, but his sweet voice was calm when he answered. “To be honest, dear heart, I think she was that happy to see _you_. I’ve never...” Now the petting of Crowley’s hair definitely stopped for a second. “I’ve never brought anyone to Christmas before.”

Crowley frowned. “Oh.”

“I suspect that Dierdre thought I was very — lonely.”

“Were you?”

Aziraphale’s voice dropped to just above a whisper. “Yes.”

Crowley wiggled a little closer. Wrapped both his arms around Aziraphale’s leg, hugging it just above the knee. “You have all your, your book mates. Visited that one in Dublin just last spring, yeah?”

“But I won’t be inviting Helen to family Christmas.”

“Well, not now I’m here,” Crowley grumbled.

“Crowley...”

“Helen can get her own angel.”

“My dear, can’t you be serious for more than five minutes...”

“Your leg is very nice. Have I mentioned that lately? It’s all, all, leggy.” Crowley hugged it tighter. “Maybe I’ll just hang onto it forever. Good idea, yeah?”

He couldn’t see Aziraphale’s face, but there was a smile in his voice. “That would make it a bit hard for me to walk.”

“Meh.”

“Or for you to drive the Bentley.”

“Worth it.”

“Or for us to join the others for dinner later...”

“Can have it brought up here.”

Aziraphale’s nails scratched lightly at his scalp, making him shiver and pulling a sound from deep in his throat.

“Or for me to kiss you.”

Crowley blinked. “Huh.”

“But, I suppose, if you prefer the loving embrace of my left leg to my being able to kiss you ever again, then that’s your prerogative...”

“Nope. Nuh uh.” Crowley let go so he could scramble back upright. “See what you’re playing at here.”

Aziraphale on a mattress was, apparently, the universe’s most adorable gravity well, which was something Crowley had honestly never thought about but was absolutely delighted to be learning today. It made it impossible to _not_ snuggle with him, if you got close enough to be pulled in. If, say, you were to flop sideways against him and take his wickedly grinning face in your hands. Draw you down right into his waiting arms, it would.

“You’re a bastard,” Crowley informed him.

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale replied. “So have you opted for kisses after all, then?”

“As many as you’ll give me.”

The wicked grin turned gentle. “We’d need thousands of years for that, lovely. But here’s one for now.”

Which of course wasn’t _fair_, him saying things like that, completely fucking destroying Crowley when he’d already had a trying afternoon. Completely unfair. But then for him to lean in and touch those soft lips to Crowley’s — just barely touching, the warm ghost of a kiss, until Crowley responded, and then they sought him with the slowest, most tender longing that Crowley could possibly imagine —

Fine. Destroyed, and the ashes salted. Nothing left of Crowley, now, and nothing would ever grow here again.

Aziraphale broke the kiss at last, though he left one more on Crowley’s cheek before he spoke. “I suppose we ought to go downstairs and rejoin the others, if you’re ready.”

Crowley mumbled.

“Are you all right now?”

“Myeah.” He ran a hand through Aziraphale’s curls. “You really are an angel. Prettiest angel there ever was.”

Aziraphale smiled at him, cheeks going pink. “_Crowley_.”

“And I should enjoy my fish when I have them. My pretty angelfish.”

That got him a confused look instead of a smile. “Fish...?”

“Never mind.” Crowley leaned his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Wanna cuddle with my gorgeous angel for just a little while longer. Think he’d be okay with that?”

“Your... your angel would like that very, very much.” Aziraphale’s arms tightened around him. “I think there’s actually nothing he’d like more.”

* * *

“One thing,” Crowley said, as they were about to leave the guest room.

“Hmm?”

Crowley sketched quotes in the air. “‘Zira’?”

“Oh. It’s an old nickname. My full name was considered a bit... much for me, when I was a boy.”

“Huh.” Crowley found one of his hands and squeezed. “I love your full name.”

Aziraphale squeezed back. “I’ve never much liked the nickname, to be honest. Other than Dierdre, I haven’t let anyone call me that since secondary school.”

“Won’t use it, then.” Crowley let those beautiful syllables roll around on his tongue. “Aziraphale.”

The tiniest grin flickered across Aziraphale’s lips. “Well, there is another name I enjoy being called _now_.”

Crowley said two more syllables.

Arms around his shoulders, suddenly, and all the perfect softness he could ever ask for, pressing him against the door. Crowley wasted absolutely no time in kissing Aziraphale’s grin right off his face.

* * *

None of the Youngs made a fuss over Crowley’s little episode. The closest was Adam, who just looked at him during dinner, swallowing a mouthful of Brussels sprouts, and very matter-of-factly said “So Uncle Aziraphale said you saw the ghost.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow at him over his glasses. “What ghost would that be?”

“There’s a ghost in this house.” Adam glanced at his parents. “I don’t think everyone can see it, cos mum and dad never have. But there’s definitely a ghost.”

“This house is barely fifty years old,” Mr Young said, in the kind of voice that suggested he’d done so before. “Hardly old enough for a ghost, innit?”

Adam’s eyes were practically glowing. “Exactly,” he grinned, “half a century. Probably _loads_ of ghosts after all that.”

Crowley nodded. “So you’ve seen this ghost?”

“Well... no. But sometimes it’s really cold in the downstairs hall. And my friend Wensleydale won’t go in the cellar for anything. Pepper says he’s ‘unusually sensitive’.”

“Not that any of you should be playing in the cellar anyway,” replied Mr Young.

“Anyway.” Adam stabbed his fork at a potato. “If you do see the ghost, you have to tell me what it looks like. For the investigation.”

“Yep, I can do that. See any ghosts, you’ll be the first to know.”

Aziraphale gave him a look that was maybe _Oh, don’t **humor** him, you idiot_, and Crowley gave him one back which was hopefully _Who’s humoring? Always encouraging scientific curiosity amongst the youth, I am._

Although Aziraphale’s look was definitely also part _At least you’re **my** idiot_. Crowley had a feeling his wasn’t any less soppy.

“D’you keep a lookout for anything else?” he added. “Non-ghost phenomena? Witches?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Adam scoffed. “There’s no such things as witches.”

“Right, sorry. Sort of new to this.”

Adam looked at him appraisingly, then shrugged. “That’s all right. It’s hard to understand these sorts of things when you’re a grown-up, I reckon.”

Crowley didn’t laugh, because Adam would probably think he was laughing _at_ him, and there was no way he’d do that. Not about something the kid obviously found fascinating. But internally, he appreciated the burn. Very skillfully applied. Something to learn from, there.

“Well,” Mrs Young said, “as long as the investigation doesn’t have anyone going down into the cellar, then that’s all right. And that includes older investigators,” she added, doing a surprisingly good job of pinning Crowley’s eyes through the glasses. “Zira, please keep your boyfriend from doing anything foolish.”

Aziraphale beamed the same way he still did whenever anyone referred to them as boyfriends. “I’m afraid that’s quite impossible. There isn’t a force on this earth that could stop Crowley from doing something completely idiotic, once he’s set his mind to it.”

“Hey,” Crowley replied, but he was grinning, and beneath the table, his hand had dropped down to link fingers with Aziraphale’s. “Let’s not ruin a nice meal by being insulting. Save it till after instead.”

Plump fingers slotted perfectly between his skinny ones. Aziraphale’s eyes sparkled at him.

“Or we could not insult anyone at all,” Mrs Young said, although she was smiling. “More potatoes, Crowley?”

* * *

After dinner, Mr and Mrs Young stayed behind to clean up, while the others were sent to the living room to “pick a nice Christmasy movie”.

Adam put on The Nightmare Before Christmas, which Aziraphale clucked at only briefly.

“Guy who did the singing voice for Jack used to have a band,” Crowley noted. “Skeletons all over the album art. Maybe I’ll play you some later.”

Adam looked reasonably interested. “Sure.”

“Maybe when he’s a _bit_ older, Crowley,” Aziraphale said disapprovingly. “You tried to play some of that for me, as I recall, and it was rather...”

He trailed off, expression gone very gentle. Crowley felt his own heart speed up, something warm and fragile spiraling in his chest. He ignored the telly as the movie started. Pulled his glasses down just long enough to catch Aziraphale’s eyes, then pushed them up again.

“Maybe in a few years?” The fragile thing shivered, squeezed beneath the sudden weight of his fear, his _certainty_ that this was far too much to ask. “That — that what you were thinking?”

Aziraphale’s voice was hushed. Just loud enough for the two of them here on the itchy loveseat, sitting beside each other, no real contact yet besides the loose touch of fingers on the seat between them. “Yes. When you’re here again next year. Or two years from now, perhaps...”

Crowley took a deep breath, then lifted his arm along the back of the loveseat. Aziraphale slid a bit closer.

“...or three...”

Aziraphale’s round body snuggled up against him, head dropping to his chest. Crowley willed his heart to be calm, to be here, not up ahead somewhere. “You know. Sooner or later he’ll be off to university.”

“Perhaps then he’ll be old enough for your... your bebop.” Aziraphale was quiet for a few seconds. “Assuming you still want to share it with him.”

Crowley breathed in deep, letting his hand drift to Aziraphale’s hair. “If _I_ still want,” he repeated, the words refusing to quite fit in his mouth. “Don’t see why _I’d_ change my mind at all, angel, _you_ —”

He made himself stop. Stroked his fingers through the soft curls, feeling Aziraphale relax slowly against him, heavy and warm.

After a few minutes, Aziraphale made some disapproving comment about the movie, and Adam defended it with a brief assist by Crowley. Mrs and Mr Young came in not long after, joining Adam on the sofa.

Crowley’s fingers tickled through Aziraphale’s hair, occasionally drawing a little sound from him, quiet and content. He didn’t pay much attention to the movie. He’d seen it plenty of times already.

* * *

They went up the stairs hand in hand, Aziraphale leading the way. The guest room was a little chilly after being empty all evening, but nothing too bad. Under the covers, it would probably be just right.

Under the covers, together.

Aziraphale looked at the bed for a while, hand tightening against Crowley’s. Eventually he broke the contact. “Would — would you like to brush your teeth first, dearest? Or shall I?”

“Go ‘head.” Crowley tried very hard to keep his hands out of his pockets. “I’ll get dressed for bed while you do.”

“Yes. Dressed.” Aziraphale rummaged through the dresser, although it seemed to take him a while to find what he needed. “I’ll use the washroom to... to do the same.”

He didn’t quite rush out of the room, but he didn’t take his time, either.

Crowley closed the door, then pulled off his trousers so his hands wouldn’t have pockets to hide in anymore. Socks and pants too. Stuffed them into the bin bag he’d brought for the purpose. The rest stayed on for now, because taking off his shirt meant seeing his scars, and seeing his scars meant feeling like shit.

His usual idea of pyjamas was a pair of sleep shorts and a t-shirt too old and ratty to wear out of the flat. Comfortable. Not very nice-looking, though. Probably should’ve thought of that earlier. At least the shorts were pretty new, no broken drawstrings or weird spots from when bleach managed to get into the laundry, but still not exactly the best choice for sharing a bed with an almost-literal angel.

Sunglasses went on a bedside table. Ratty old t-shirt came out of his overnight bag. The rest of the clothing he’d been wearing today came off, and there they were. His top surgery scars, disgusting as always. Hideous. He pulled the shirt over them without looking down any more than he could help.

Crowley opened the door, sat on the bed, and waited. It was a few more minutes before Aziraphale came back.

No ratty t-shirt for him, of course. No, his pyjamas were a matched set, a pale blue not much darker than his endless identical daytime shirts, and with fussy white piping along the cuffs and collar and placket. Looked very fancy. Very soft. Very, very good on him. And with no waistcoat to smooth out the shape of him, all those bumps and rolls and curves of his pressed gently against the fabric, outlining the dim silhouette of what Crowley would swear before God and Satan both was the most perfect body in the world.

“Crowley, you’re _staring_ at me.”

Aziraphale was blushing, not meeting his eyes. It was the kind of look Crowley hadn’t seen much of since they’d started dating. The kind of look he used to see all the time when he’d say something stupid, something lovesick and completely, utterly sincere, only Aziraphale hadn’t ever been sure that —

“Really want to look at you.” He stood up, drifting a little closer, even though he wanted to fucking throw himself across the room. “Don’t mean to stare. Creepy of me, I spose. Am I being creepy? Probably being creepy.”

Aziraphale’s hands twisted together. “I hadn’t... quite realized how revealing my sleepwear was.”

“I can barely see _wrist_, Aziraphale.”

“I meant...” His hands rested against the curve of his belly, just long enough for the meaning to be clear. “It doesn’t really bother me, when I’m alone. But.” He still looked at the floor, at the wall, anywhere but at Crowley. “But now you can... see.”

Crowley’s heart twinged painfully. “Saw this morning, didn’t I?”

“...yes...”

One step forward. “How’d I react then?”

“Oh.” Aziraphale glanced at him very briefly. “You asked if you could...”

Crowley held out his arms. Aziraphale looked at him again, for a long time, and his face twisted through so many expressions that Crowley didn’t even try to keep track.

“Gonna keep telling you.” Crowley didn’t move any closer. Just held his arms out, open, wide enough for every bit of angel he might ever be graced with. “I already see you. All of you. Still want to ask the same thing.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes, bringing his hands up to cover the bottom half of his face. Crowley watched him take several deep breaths.

Then he nodded.

“Y-you’re sure.”

Another nod.

“I can — touch you. I can touch your —”

Crowley stopped, not sure he could go on. _Your stomach_, he could say, _your middle_, _your incredible beautiful perfect belly_ —

“If you want to,” Aziraphale said into his hands, still not opening his eyes. “Only if you want to.”

Crowley circled him slowly, carefully, like if he stepped wrong he might break. Maybe he would. Shatter into a million fragile pieces, the way he was feeling.

He moved up right behind Aziraphale, leaning against his back. Resting his chin on one plump shoulder.

“But do _you_ want me to?”

Aziraphale uttered a little sound that didn’t make it to a word. Nodded one more time.

Crowley shut his own eyes, put out his arms, and wrapped them around the love of his entire stupid life.

His hands settled on the front of Aziraphale’s pyjama shirt, on the single thin layer of fabric, pressing in just enough to sink into the softness. He could _feel_ it. There was a bulge there, forming a roll around the top of Aziraphale’s belly, just where it arced out from his chest and began its graceful downward curve. His hands traced down to a second roll beneath. Cupped the bottom of it, felt it warm and heavy in his palms.

He shuddered out a breath. “Angel,” he murmured. “Angel. You’re so — so —”

“Fat,” Aziraphale supplied quietly.

“Yeah.” Crowley let himself explore, caressing, finally starting to learn all the complicated curves that made up this heavenly body. “Yeah, you are. And you’re beautiful. Fat and beautiful, and...” He squeezed, just a little. “And perfect.”

“Crowley.”

He made himself stop, lifting his hands away. “Red light?”

Aziraphale laughed, then. The sound was strange and choked, but when he took Crowley’s hands in his, they were sure. When he pressed those hands deep against his belly, he didn’t tremble at all.

“Green light, you darling idiot. For as long as you’d like.”

Crowley traced circles into the soft flesh. Remembered what Aziraphale had said before, about kissing him, about all the kisses he would give if he could. “Take thousands of years,” he said around the sudden lump in his throat. “Till the end of the world.”

Aziraphale shivered in his arms.

“I don’t...” He cleared his throat. “I’ve never actually, well. Shared a bed with someone before. I’m not sure how it, er...”

Crowley smiled against his curls. “Works?”

“Especially when one party is so... so much larger than the other.”

“Anyone can be a little spoon.” He mapped out the shape of love handles, of the space between them and the glorious rolling belly. “Or a big spoon. Spoons don’t care.”

“...spoons?”

Crowley’s breath hitched. “I’ll show you. We’ll figure out what works for us.”

He hugged Aziraphale tighter for a second. “Perfect angel.”

Aziraphale twisted around, then, putting his arms around Crowley’s neck and looking directly into his eyes. “You’re perfect too, Crowley.”

Crowley’s face went hot.

“I know you’re sensitive about your eyes, and your hands. Other things which you think mark you as different.” He shook his head. “You’re perfect, dearest. Just as you are.”

“Shaped all wrong, though. Fucking ugly scars from top surgery. I’m not —”

“You are.” Aziraphale pressed against him, round and fat and obviously the perfect one here, no question, no doubt at all in Crowley’s mind. “You weren’t born in a body which society respects as male. But you are still my boyfriend, darling. And you are still the most handsome man I have ever seen.”

Crowley hid his face against Aziraphale’s shoulder so he wouldn’t have to answer.

“You are the most perfect man I could ever imagine,” Aziraphale said softly. “And yet, somehow, you’re mine. It really doesn’t seem to follow.”

“Mngh.”

“Exactly,” Aziraphale answered, a little smile in his voice. “Now, do brush your teeth, dear. And then we can go to — bed.”

“Bed,” Crowley agreed, before peeling himself away. Brushed his teeth, used the facilities. Unimportant mundane things like that.

Aziraphale ended up taking the side closer to the door, where he’d sat earlier that day. He curled up under the covers, facing outward, hands tucked under his head. “Will...”

Crowley wriggled in behind him, just out of the gravity well. “Yeah?”

“Will you hold me? While we sleep?”

Crowley’s chest sucked in a breath on its own, huge and glowing. “Spoons,” he managed, voice faint. “Big spoon does the holding. Little spoon...” He moved closer, pressing his body against Aziraphale’s. “Little spoon gets held.” His arm snaked around Aziraphale’s waist. “Make. Make sense?”

“Little,” Aziraphale replied softly. “I’m not used to being that.”

Crowley stroked his hand along the fabric covering Aziraphale’s belly. It was shaped differently now, gravity pulling it in a whole new direction. All the contours he’d started to map out were changed. He’d have to learn this body a thousand times over, probably, in all the ways it could move.

Fuck. What a goddamn fucking _privilege_.

He wrapped himself tighter around him, squeezing fiercely for an instant, eyes and throat full of unshed tears. “You’re my pretty little _angel_,” he choked. “You know that, yeah? Always will be. Always.”

Aziraphale’s hand drifted to cover his. “Good... good night, beloved.”

“Night, pretty little angel. Sleep tight.”

The hand disappeared again, and Aziraphale shifted against him, maybe getting comfortable. Crowley readjusted his hold on the soft fall of belly, smiling into the darkness with his heart thudding joyfully against his ribs.

There were a few more minor adjustments before Aziraphale drifted off to sleep. Crowley took longer. He knew he had to be dreaming already, lying here with the most beautiful man in England asleep under his arm, so he hung onto it as long as possible. But eventually he lost track of it. 

He woke to gray dawnlight, a fat angel pillowed against him, curly head and round arm resting on his chest.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Day at the Youngs' house includes waking up, gift exchanging, and a special surprise from Aziraphale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter-specific warning notes:** the word "fat" is used, but not negatively, because this is the Soft Zone(TM).

Crowley watched Aziraphale sleep for maybe ten minutes.

His arm had escaped the covers and was bloody cold, and he frankly needed to hit the small room more than was comfortable. But there was an angel on top of him. Head resting on his chest, turned away so all Crowley could see was sleep-smashed curls. Arm thrown across him, fat and warm. Crowley had rolled away onto his back at some point, legs kicked sideways, and Aziraphale’s round body snuggled up against him in a way that he had to stop himself from thinking about too much. Had Aziraphale woken in the night? Or had he done it while asleep, all unconscious, shifting to follow Crowley’s movements and keep them close out of pure instinct —

Nope, not thinking about it. Not going to start crying ridiculous ugly tears of joy _now_. Might wake Aziraphale up, and who would ever want to do that?

So he lay there as still as he could, watching Aziraphale sleep. Listening to the little sounds he made, breath and the occasional low mutter and... 

He grinned. Pretty sure that was a stomach rumbling. 

Once Aziraphale twitched, almost like he might wake up. He mumbled something which could have been Crowley’s name, maybe. Another thing to definitely not think about right now.

Eventually, a door slammed out in the hall, and a thirteen-year-old voice yelled “It’s Christmas!!”, and Aziraphale’s steady breathing broke into an unangelic little snort.

Crowley beamed down at him.

For a second or two, Aziraphale lay absolutely motionless on Crowley’s chest. Then there was a tiny “oh.”

“Good morning, angel.”

Aziraphale wiggled even closer to him. “I love you.”

Crowley’s breath rushed out of him in a helpless sort of “huh” noise.

“Happy Christmas,” Aziraphale added, the words said directly into Crowley’s sternum.

_I love you too_, Crowley didn’t say, with his withered empty lungs. _I’m so deep in love with you that I can’t even see daylight anymore, that the only thing left is you, the only light is your smile and it’s so bright that it burns. I’m going to die, now, because I just can’t fucking handle this. But I’m dying with your name on my lips and my heart in your hands. Please take care of it. It’s yours forever._

“Chri’mas,” he wheezed instead.

“Adam’s patience doesn't tend to last long. Shall we go downstairs?”

“S-sure.”

Aziraphale rose from his chest, turning to smile down at him. His hair was a mess, and his round cheek was reddened and creased from pressing against Crowley’s shirt. There was a little crust of something beside one eye.

Crowley actually _was_ going to die, wasn’t he. It wasn’t exaggeration at all.

“Are you all right, darling?”

“Can’t. Can’t be this happy so early in the morning. Killing me. You’re just so...”

Aziraphale cupped a hand to Crowley’s jaw, smiling fondly. “I would rather you get used to it.” His cheeks went slightly pink. “Happiness, I mean.”

Crowley’s lungs emptied out again.

He worked on not perishing while Aziraphale rose and did something across the room. Something rustly. Changing? Holy fuck, he couldn’t be doing that here, not without giving some warning. All that beauty just out, everywhere, one wrong look and whoops, no more Crowley...

“Dearest?”

Crowley cracked one eye. Okay. No. Aziraphale had just pulled on a robe, was all. More clothing, not less. A bloody tartan robe. Tied at the waist, hiding the details of him, but Crowley knew they were still there. 

“Beautiful,” he said.

Aziraphale’s cheeks dimpled. “You really do believe that, don’t you.” He held out a hand. “Come downstairs?”

“Beautiful,” Crowley said again, flopping out of bed. “And actually, I want to, er, brush my teeth first.”

“Oh — of course. I should after you’re done, I suppose...”

By the time they arrived at the tree, hand-in-hand and one very minty kiss exchanged, the Youngs were already assembled: parents on the sofa again, Adam on the floor with a wrapped box already to hand. One of the ones they’d brought out in the Bentley, Crowley noticed. Apparently Uncle Aziraphale gave good presents.

“I’ve been ready for half an hour,” Adam noted. “You hafta tell me as soon as you’re ready so I can start. It’s the rules,” he added, looking at Crowley.

“Well, y’know. Gotta have rules, yeah? Otherwise it’d just be chaos.”

Adam looked pleased. “Exactly.”

The adults traded good-mornings and how-did-you-sleeps as Aziraphale and Crowley took up the itchy loveseat again. Aziraphale didn’t let go of Crowley’s hand the whole time, which was good, because Crowley didn’t really want to let go of his, either.

“Everyone settled, then?” Mrs Young smiled around the room, and Crowley wondered if she maybe didn’t turn it toward him for just a little longer. Being inclusive to the guest, maybe. Or maybe it was something to do with what Aziraphale had said last night. How he’d been coming here every year for... Crowley didn’t even know how long, and had never brought anyone until now.

He was so _beautiful_. How could he possibly have been lonely? Why didn’t everyone see what Crowley saw?

Someone gave Adam the go-ahead, and he tore into the first gift. Crowley didn’t really pay attention. He should have, really, should have reacted with more than a smile and a vague mumble when Adam crowed over the complicated-looking diver’s watch which Crowley sure hoped one of his parents could help him figure out how to work, because there was no way Aziraphale would know. But the only person he had eyes for was Aziraphale. Who laughed and chattered with the others, face in constant motion. Whose brown eyes sparkled and whose delicate lips smiled and whose cheeks were softly pink, not because of anything so stupid as Crowley but just because he was happy to be here.

His pudgy fingers were woven with Crowley’s. His thumb absently stroked the back of Crowley’s hand.

When Crowley squeezed, Aziraphale’s cheeks went even pinker for a few seconds.

Adam’s next gift was a pocketknife, and Mr Young grumbled a bit about not being sure the boy was ready, but Crowley knew Aziraphale had run everything by the parents ahead of time. It was probably one of their little traditions, the grumbling. Something Crowley could maybe be totally familiar with by the time Adam went off to university. If he came back next year, two years from now, three.

There were a few more things opened, something for Mrs Young, and Mr Young, and a few more for Adam. There was a box for Aziraphale, containing a set of teacups so tiny and breakable-looking that Crowley was almost afraid to be on the same sofa with them.

He actually jumped a little when a gift appeared in front of him.

“Happy Christmas, Crowley.” Mrs Young smiled, holding it out: maybe a foot on the longest side, neatly wrapped in the same bright-colored paper as the things that’d already been here when they’d arrived. 

“Oh, er,” Crowley replied brilliantly. “For, uh...?”

“Of course! Go on, open it!”

He took it with the hand that wasn’t holding Aziraphale’s. Light. Didn’t rattle with an experimental shake. Not sure how he was supposed to open it, not without letting go of Aziraphale, but —

But Aziraphale was solving that problem for him. Retrieving his hand, leaving the spaces between Crowley’s fingers cold and empty, and then settling it, warm and heavy and adorably dimpled, on Crowley’s leg.

“Go ahead, dear,” he urged, apparently not realizing that if he so much as squeezed then he’d kill Crowley dead.

“Gnh.” Crowley’s hands shook just a little as he tore the wrapping off. Under that, a simple cardboard box; inside that...

Something soft, black fabric trimmed with deep red. A scarf. A cashmere scarf which matched his entire aesthetic perfectly. And felt, in his hands, like it would be ridiculously warm.

“You never dress for the weather, darling, and I do worry.” Aziraphale didn’t squeeze his leg, but he did _pet_ it, and that was possibly even worse. “I may have complained to Dierdre one too many times about it, so... this was her solution.”

“It’s great,” Crowley choked. He unfolded the scarf and watched the red accents shimmer against the cashmere. “I... thank you, Mrs Young. Thanks.”

She shook her head and smiled. “You’re part of the family now, you know. You’re going to have to start calling me Dierdre.”

Crowley wondered if destroying him was just something that ran in the family.

“Can I open the last one from you, Uncle Aziraphale? It says on the tag to ask first.”

Everyone looked over at Adam, taking the spotlight off Crowley again. The kid was a godsend. Three more seconds and Crowley would’ve been sobbing into his gift, and what kind of impression would _that_ leave?

“I wouldn’t suggest opening that one just yet,” Aziraphale answered, pretty face lit up in a delighted grin. “Not before you take a look at that odd-shaped one from your parents, just next to the tree...”

Adam switched targets instantly, which was funny enough to get a snort out of Crowley. When Aziraphale actually _did_ squeeze his leg some minutes later, his heart barely stopped at all.

“Please excuse me a moment, love.”

He stood up and wove through the paper detritus to the tree, where there was still one good-sized box. Another brought out from home, done up with fussy precision in the antique-styled gold-and-red paper Aziraphale had chosen. Crowley actually remembered this one. Aziraphale had loaded it into the Bentley carefully, and had insisted on being the one to carry it to the house.

He picked it up now. Brought it to Crowley, and set it in his lap. 

Crowley squinted at him. “Did we bring this all the way from London just for me to open it here?”

“We might have,” Aziraphale beamed.

The lid of the box was wrapped separately, held on with an elaborately-tied ribbon. The whole thing weighed maybe three pounds. Nothing rattled when he shook it.

“...I’d rather you didn’t do that, actually.”

“Sorry.” 

_You wouldn’t have to bring anything_, Aziraphale had said, and of course Crowley had ignored him and brought a gift anyway. Just for Aziraphale, something to give him when they were alone. No way he was letting their first Christmas together —

Fuck, fucking _God_, their first Christmas _together_ —

No way was he letting it go by without getting Aziraphale _something_. But he’d assumed that he wouldn’t be receiving anything.

Crowley took a deep breath, tugged off the ribbon, and removed the lid.

“Uh.”

Nestled in a bed of tissue paper, a small potted plant quietly berated him for its earlier shaking.

“‘S this a...” Crowley gently lifted the plant, turning it in his hands. “Clover, yeah. It —” The thought struck him right between the eyes, and he hugged the pot a little closer. “Like the cafe.”

Aziraphale sat next to him again. “Like the cafe,” he agreed. “Another plant for your collection.”

“I love it, angel.” Crowley settled it back into its box. “It’s gonna get the best spot on my windowsill. All the sun it can eat. Promise.”

Soft hands wound around his arm. “I’m sure it will do very well in your care.”

There were a few more things left to open, and then came breakfast, and a break for Adam to enjoy his spoils while his parents cleaned up. Crowley ended up having to be the one to show him how his new watch worked. The only adult in the family with any technical ability to speak of, apparently. Meant he and Adam were going to have to stick together.

The thought came so easily that he didn’t even register it until a few minutes later. He wanted this to last. God help him, but he wanted this to last.

He leaned his head against Aziraphale’s curls. “Angel.”

“Hmm?”

“Nothing. Just... hi.”

Aziraphale shifted, arms winding around him, lips pressing against his temple. “Hello to you. Are you having a good Christmas?”

“God yes. Best one I’ve ever had.”

“There...” Aziraphale hesitated, and Crowley turned to look at him, although he didn’t leave the circle of his arms. “There was one other thing I wanted to give you, but it actually requires you to drive us somewhere. Tonight, about thirty miles from here. If that’s all right...?”

Crowley grinned. “I’d drive you anywhere. Drive you to Paris if you wanted. You love crepes and chocolate and, and fancy wine. Wanna go to Paris instead? Say the word and we’re out of here.”

“_Crowley_,” Aziraphale replied. He left another kiss on Crowley’s temple, though, and this one lingered just a little more. “Perhaps some other time.”

* * *

Aziraphale wouldn’t tell him where they were going. Just told him which turns to take, decent-sized roads at first, but smaller and more remote as they went on. The stretches of darkness, broken only by the Bentley’s headlights and the stars above, got longer and longer.

“Oh! Turn here! This should be the car park, I think.”

“You think?” Crowley peered out the windshield. “Bloody hell, Aziraphale, this is a _field_. This is where you murder me and dump the body, I spose?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Aziraphale was only half paying attention, unbuckling his seatbelt and getting out of the car. “Oh, good Lord, it’s cold. I’m so glad I convinced you to bring gloves.”

“Still have all my fingers when I’m murdered, then. Good job there.”

Crowley followed, though, getting out and joining him at the edge of the car park. Aziraphale grabbed his hand and beamed at him, which made the cold seem just a little less important as they started up a grassy hill. 

When they stopped some minutes later, it didn’t seem to be anywhere specific. Crowley was starting to care more about the cold again. 

Heavy arms wound around his neck, and he snuggled up to the warm round body almost instinctively. Aziraphale smiled at him with his eyes full of light. “Look up, darling.”

Crowley did.

“_Bloody_ —”

He probably would’ve overbalanced and gone right over, head thrown back so far that all he could see was sky. Aziraphale held him, though, anchoring him with perfect weight. He could drink in the stars without worry. Scattered and flung across the night sky, the fog of the Milky Way visible like he hadn’t seen in years and years, and all his old friends were there, twinkling just for him...

“There’s so _many_ of them,” he whispered.

“I understand this is the best site for stargazing anywhere near Tadfield,” Aziraphale said. “It’s... not a proper observatory, or anything like that, just a hill in the dark, but —”

“The stars,” Crowley interrupted. “This is my gift?”

Aziraphale’s voice was gentle. “I know how much you love them. So I — I thought we could just look at them. Out away from the city.”

Crowley looked down at him. “Wha —”

Oh. Funny, he’d never wondered what Aziraphale’s face might look like, tipped up toward him and full of starlight. Eyes shining like stars themselves, and soft lips curved up so sweetly that Crowley’s own lips had to cover them immediately.

Aziraphale hummed delicately into the kiss, one hand winding in Crowley’s hair. When he added one of those happy all-over wiggles into the mix, Crowley almost fell over again.

“I don’t —” Aziraphale started, in between kisses. “I’m not really —” A little gasping giggle. “_Darling_ —”

Crowley grinned against Aziraphale’s mouth.

“I am _not_,” Aziraphale said, putting a hand between them, “particularly familiar with any constellations or anything like that. But I thought...”

“You thought?” Crowley mumbled against his soft palm.

“That you could tell me about them.” Something trembled in Aziraphale’s star-bright eyes. “Show them to me.”

The hand moved to Crowley’s cheek, letting him lean down and kiss Aziraphale one more time. Just a press of half-closed lips, a hushed exchange of breath.

“I have literally had daydreams about doing that exact fucking thing, Aziraphale.” His voice sounded kind of like he’d been chewing glass, but that was fine. Everything was fine. “How did you _know_? I’ve never, I don’t think I ever mentioned — this was all just a stupid hobby, and it was so long ago, I —”

Aziraphale tilted his head. “Why, Anathema told me, of course.”

Crowley stared.

“You were _there_, love. When I joined you at Muramoto’s for Liz’s birthday?” He frowned. “It was half of why I owed you a secret for so long?”

Something was starting to turn in Crowley’s head. “Wait. The one was the clown thing, and the other was...”

“That you were an amateur astronomer, yes. You didn’t know? You didn’t even _wonder_ what the other secret was?”

“I — buh, I guess I — no?”

Aziraphale looked almost comically dismayed. “Oh, beloved. You’re an _idiot_.”

Crowley moved his hands to cup Aziraphale’s perfectly rounded sides. “Well, you’re stuck with me. So now who’s the idiot?”

He turned Aziraphale around, very slowly, hands moving around his generous waist. The arms around his neck were pulled away so that Aziraphale’s own hands could cover his. Like he was helping direct exactly where Crowley’s palms should go.

They ended up against the front of Aziraphale’s coat. Aziraphale stood in the circle of his arms, his back against Crowley’s chest, his belly wide and full under Crowley’s hands.

Crowley buried his smile in the halo of curls and pointed up.

“We’ll start with an easy one. See that one really bright star...?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't name it in the text, but the specific place where Aziraphale takes Crowley stargazing is [Uffington White Horse Hill](https://gostargazing.co.uk/events/locations/uffington-white-horse-hill/). I know nothing about how it looks or how far the parking lot is from the actual hillside or anything. But I did learn about [the horse](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Uffington_White_Horse)! I like the horse.
> 
> We've got one more chapter at the Youngs', and I think it's the shortest chapter thus far, but after that they will start getting... rather longer.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tail end of Christmas Day at the Youngs' house: some talking, and a gift for Aziraphale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter-specific warning notes:**
> 
>   * The word "fat" is used, but not negatively, because this is the Soft Zone(TM)
>   * Internalized fatphobia
> 
> **Also I would like everyone to know that this story now has lovely art** (for chapter 18, specifically) drawn by Tumblr user c4th33-wolf! You can find my Tumblr reblog, with a bunch of yelling about things I love in the tags, [here](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/189623443804/i-im-sorry-what-you-created-art-with-your).

They snuck back into the Youngs’ house like teenagers, shushing each other and laughing quietly as they stumbled through darkened rooms. No point, of course; there was still a light on down the hall in Mrs and Mr Young’s room, and Crowley very clearly heard a cheerful “Good night, boys!” followed by a deeper sleepy mumble. 

“Good night, Dierdre, Arthur,” Aziraphale called back. Very polite. Then he started giggling again, muffling it behind one hand as they climbed the stairs. 

Crowley listened to that sweet high sound and let his heart fill to drowning with it.

In their room again, door closed, Crowley was all set to throw himself into Aziraphale’s arms and kiss him a few thousand more times. Certainly Aziraphale looked like he’d be okay with the idea — his breath was coming just a little fast, soft body heaving with it. Face flushed, eyes bright and crinkled in that unfairly adorable way. Smiling. Just absolutely _beaming_ right at Crowley. Almost like he was happy to see him. Almost like he loved him.

Something huge moved in Crowley’s chest. He was pretty sure he knew exactly what it was by now. Pretty sure his wasn’t the only chest doing the thing.

Instead of hurling himself across the room, he walked almost calmly to the corner where he’d kicked his overnight bag. He didn’t do anything with it yet, just turned to look at Aziraphale.

“You’re everything,” Crowley said. “I don’t — there aren’t words for you. Wouldn’t be able to say them if there were.”

The shine in Aziraphale’s eyes was a little different now. “Darling.”

“And you said not to bring anything, right. That you just, just wanted me here. Just me.” The thing in his chest was starting to intrude on his abdominal cavity. “Like I was enough.”

“Crowley, my _treasure_. You are —”

“Wait, though. No. Pretty sure I’m not. Enough. So I — I —”

He knelt by the bag, turning his face away a little. Trying to wipe away the tears without being too obvious about it. “Hang on.”

In the main pocket somewhere. Cheap paper and badly wrapped and probably banged up from floating around in there — sure, just the thing to give his gorgeous fat angel boyfriend for their very first Christmas together. A very Crowley move.

“Know it’s in here,” Crowley muttered. “Can’t not be in here, I — there! Bastard.”

When he stood up again, he was enveloped in softness so suddenly that he almost dropped the gift.

Aziraphale’s belly pressed to his back, giving gently against him. His arms looped around Crowley’s waist and squeezed. There was a weight on Crowley’s right shoulder: Aziraphale’s perfect double chin, snuggled up so he could rest his head against Crowley’s.

“You are enough,” Aziraphale said. “You are, Crowley.”

Crowley leaned back into him, into all his wide spreading beauty. Shook his head.

“I asked someone else to come to Christmas once, you know.”

Crowley stiffened. “Uh?"

“Oh, years ago. Many years. I was barely thirty.” Aziraphale moved his arms up a little higher, although not quite up to where Crowley’s scars etched across his skin. “And he was very good-looking, and was kind to me, sometimes.”

Aziraphale’s ex. Crowley knew he had a couple, at least, but Aziraphale never talked about them. Was this the one who’d dared to “not see” all his pretty fatness, or the one who’d wanted “relations”, or...

“I don’t understand why he asked to start a relationship when he plainly didn’t... didn’t find me attractive.” Aziraphale’s voice dropped. “I believed that he did, in his own way, but... I know what it feels like, now. To be loved like that. _Wanted_ like that.”

Crowley put his free hand over one of Aziraphale’s, threading their fingers together. “You’re the most beautiful man in the world, angel. Whole fucking _world_.”

Soft lips brushed his jaw beneath his ear.

“I asked him, because I loved him, and because I believed he loved me. Because I wanted to have all my family together. I told him all of this.”

“Yeah?”

“He said he would think about it.” Aziraphale pulled his head back, and the next words were spoken against Crowley’s back. “And then left me three days later.”

“Wh —” Crowley tried to turn around, wanting to face Aziraphale so he could hold him and kiss him and whisper _angel, pretty angel, I love you and I’ll kill him, angel_ against his delicately pink lips. But Aziraphale held him carefully in place.

“I don’t love easily, Crowley. I’ve learned that it only ends poorly. Ends with me ashamed of myself, and... of my body, yet again.”

“_Aziraphale_ —”

“But I love you. You are _worth_ loving. The first man I have thought worth loving in years. And I know you love me, too.” 

Aziraphale let go, and Crowley spun around to face him, to see his eyes dry but filled with something fierce and glowing.

“What about any of that sounds to you like _not enough_?”

_It’s that it’s me_, Crowley wanted to say, instinct kicking in, the same old tired knowledge. _Because I can’t be enough, I’m too broken, I’m too worthless. Everyone leaves me. There’s a reason for that._

But there was a plump hand on his cheek, running over the sharp edge of his jaw. The fire in Aziraphale’s eyes was dimming to something more gentle. Candlelight, maybe. 

“Your body’s nice,” he said instead.

Aziraphale’s mouth ticked up in a little smirk. “Flatterer.”

“Wh — no, I —” Crowley felt his face go hot. “I just — you shouldn’t be ashamed. Of it. That’s all.” He stared at a very interesting wall. “Or of yourself.”

Gentle fingers traced the bones that jutted from his skin: cheek, jaw, chin. The too-small orbit of his brow. Aziraphale’s palm cradled the side of his face. “The same holds true for you, you know.”

Crowley leaned down and kissed him instead of answering. Started to reach for him, for all of him, but then there was a crinkling noise, and he remembered that one of his hands was occupied.

“Fuck. I forgot, your —” He scoffed. “Went and distracted me. This is sposed to be about you.”

He held the present out. Crumpled and terrible-looking, just like he’d suspected. “Happy Christmas, angel.”

Aziraphale’s reaction was all wrong. He shouldn’t have been smiling like that, shouldn’t have been suddenly suspiciously bright-eyed as he took the pile of red-and-green junk with uncertain hands. Shouldn’t have looked up at him all pink-cheeked and tremulous. Acting like he’d just been handed some kind of treasure. He hadn’t even opened the damn thing yet.

“Thank you.” His voice wobbled, a little, and he cleared his throat. “Thank you so much, Crowley.”

Crowley shrugged. “Sure. ‘S nothing.” 

Aziraphale sat down on the bed, holding the present in his lap. It wasn’t big. Barely seemed to take up any room at all on his wide-spreading thighs. And it really was nothing — worse than nothing, really — Crowley should take it back and —

Pudgy fingers tore delicately at the paper. Too late. Crowley sat down next to Aziraphale, letting the gravity well pull him down to rest his head on one padded shoulder, so he wouldn’t have to look him in the eye.

There was a brief silence. “Oh,” said Aziraphale.

“Dunno if you remember,” Crowley said to the shoulder. “It was back at the —”

“This is a print of that horrid painting from the Clover Cafe.” Aziraphale held it up, fingers curling around the edges of the frame. “Dearest, I thought we both _hated_ this.”

“It’s not the painting, though.” Too hard to explain. Why’d he done this to himself? Was it too late to grab it back and jump out the bloody window with it?

“Not the painting, it’s...” Crowley nestled his face more comfortably into Aziraphale’s shoulder, into the crook of his neck. “It’s the time. That day. When you said it’d be hard, me having to look at this so much. And I said...”

Aziraphale’s voice smiled. “You said I was better to look at than it was.” 

“Didn’t quite put it _that_ way. But. Yeah. Think that’s what I meant.”

He felt Aziraphale’s head lean against his own.

“Was so mad at myself for just, just _saying_ it like that. Because you didn’t need that, right, some git all moony over you in a bloody coffee shop. And I didn’t...” He sighed. “Didn’t need to go loving someone who wouldn’t love me. Again.”

There was the quiet _thunk_ of a framed print being set down on a nightstand.

Aziraphale put both arms around him, slowly, pulling him closer. Cradling him against all that softness, all his round fat beautiful body, the same body Crowley had once tried extremely hard to forget his brief contact with, because that had seemed easier. Better. Because it had been obvious that he’d have no chance of happiness with this incredible gorgeous man. This utter fucking angel.

He laid a hand on the perfect roll of Aziraphale’s side, and was rewarded with a kiss on the temple.

“So you can look at that, and. And remember that you’re the better thing. The one I wanted to look at then. And now. Still do now.”

He stopped talking to Aziraphale’s shoulder, raising his head to look directly in his beautiful shimmering eyes. “Always will.”

He kissed Aziraphale, or maybe Aziraphale kissed him, or both, who knew. They were definitely both crying, though. Just a few tears for Aziraphale, wetting his pretty round cheeks. Big stupid chest-heaving sobs for Crowley. Always been an emotional mess, him. Nothing new there.

When Aziraphale pulled him down onto the bed, he didn’t resist at all. Wouldn’t be anything here he wasn’t willing to do, not when his angel didn’t want those things either. So he let himself be drawn down, ending up with Aziraphale lying on the bed, and Crowley lying more or less on top of him. Cuddled up to the most wonderful belly in the world. His head was pillowed on Aziraphale’s chest, and Aziraphale’s hand was curled lightly in his hair. 

Crowley wondered what they’d put on his tombstone, if he just died right here. Probably wouldn’t outright say he’d died of pure unbearable joy. Be something boring like an aneurysm.

He didn’t die, though. Aziraphale’s body moved with his gentle breath, up and down, and Crowley matched his own breathing to it. He felt calmer, after a while. Soothed.

“Love you,” he said quietly. “_In_ love with you. So we’re clear.”

“I’m in love with you too, my darling.” A little sigh. “My Crowley.”

“Yours,” Crowley agreed, and he snuggled closer, eyes closing as a warm arm curled around him.

“I still hate that painting, my darling Crowley. But I love your gift to me.”

Crowley smiled into Aziraphale’s chest. “Good. Glad.”

After a while Crowley lifted his head, kissing the shirt above Aziraphale’s heart before pulling himself away to get ready for bed. When they retired for the night, Aziraphale was the little spoon again. Crowley nestled against his soft back, arm around his waist, trying very hard to stay awake and aware for as long as he could. Eventually he slept. 

He woke in the morning to find himself curled on his other side. Aziraphale had followed him again, cradling him against his perfect body, sleeping breath warm on the back of Crowley’s neck.

* * *

Mrs Young hugged them both goodbye. It made sense that she’d hug Aziraphale — they were cousins, close enough that only she got to use the shortened version of his name — but Crowley hadn’t expected to be drawn into one himself. There it was, though. A very nice blonde woman was embracing him warmly, saying “Thank you _so much_ for coming with Zira,” and releasing him with a huge smile.

Mr Young gave his hand a hearty shake. Seemed like he had the family’s approval, then.

Adam just shrugged a goodbye to both of them, probably because he was thirteen and obviously too cool for hugging relatives. But he tilted his head to look at Crowley, considering him for several thoughtful seconds before nodding.

“You’re all right, I spose,” he said. “Think the Them would like you.”

Crowley grinned. “Maybe I’ll meet them next time.”

Aziraphale’s hand in his tightened, just for a second. Crowley squeezed back. _You heard me, angel_, the squeeze meant to say. _I want loads of next times._

Once their few gifts were loaded up in the Bentley, including that little potted clover which Crowley was going to lavish care on until it was big and lush enough to win awards, they waved goodbye one last time and then were on their way.

Crowley drove only a little over the speed limit all the way home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're all still doing very well. I love you all. <3
> 
> Please come back Monday for New Year's Eve!


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New Year's Eve doesn't go quite as Crowley and Aziraphale planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter-specific warning notes:** References to homophobia and biphobia, though none appears in the text
> 
> Bit of housekeeping unrelated to this chapter specifically... I am currently some weeks behind on comment replies, but I am finally getting back through them now, and hope to be caught up in a couple weeks from now. If you have been wondering why I haven't responded to something you've said or asked, it's not just you! It's literally everyone.

Red Red was open for New Year’s Eve, and Crowley undoubtedly would have made a fortune in tips working that night. One of the other servers had asked to swap shifts with him, though. It hadn’t been a hard decision. A few more weeks eating beans, maybe, but it meant starting his next year on this weird little mudball right. With an angel in his arms.

He hadn’t even seen Aziraphale since getting back from Tadfield, he’d been working so much. Not even a selfie in their endless text conversations. _It just seems so vain to be photographing myself_, Aziraphale had protested, and Crowley hadn’t had the words to express how okay that was, since Aziraphale had so much to be vain of. 

He’d sent a selfie of his own in response. Posing like a pretentious git in the bathroom mirror, still in the worn-out t-shirt he’d slept in. It’d taken a couple tries to keep a straight face long enough to get the picture. _oh so your saying I’m vain???_

Aziraphale’s reply made him groan and laugh all at once, burying his warming face against a forearm. _It isn’t vanity when the subject is as lovely as you are, dearest. I’d go so far as to say it’s more of a gift to the rest of us._

He’d texted a photo of the most terrible face he could make.

_Ah, excellent. I needed a new lock screen._

_bastard_

Aziraphale sent a heart emoji. Crowley sent a row of them right back.

* * *

He got to the shop just before seven, dressed up for their dinner reservation at some hotel restaurant only one step down on the fanciness meter from the Ritz. A little early, because he wanted some time alone together first. Wanted to just run his hand through those pretty curls, stare into those gorgeous changeable eyes. Not have to share the moment with anyone beyond the two of them.

Crowley shoved through the unlocked door, started to yell for Aziraphale, then realized he could hear his voice already.

He followed the sound to the back, words starting to come clear as he got closer. It was Aziraphale plus someone else. Deeper voice. Not anyone Crowley could place.

“...they don’t care,” the other voice was saying, then something that ended in “...if anyone would, only I thought maybe —”

“I certainly do care, dear boy.” There was an unusual note in Aziraphale’s voice, one Crowley had only heard a few times before. Not quite the way he sounded when he was telling someone that no, that book was definitely not for sale, but close. “And I promise to help you as best as I am able —”

A surprised sound from Aziraphale, and a mumble from the other person. “Of course,” Aziraphale replied, his voice gone softer, more like what Crowley was used to hearing.

Crowley reached his destination at last. Leaned against the doorframe, and looked across the room at Aziraphale, sitting on the sofa, currently in the arms of another man.

“Man” was maybe a little bit strong, though. Yichen was one of the uni kids who used the shop as a quiet study spot — for his bachelor’s, Crowley was pretty sure, since he didn’t think you got to double-major in grad school. First-generation British, along with his younger sisters. Very traditional parents. Not a lot of room for slackers in their family.

Not a lot of room for gay kids either. 

Aziraphale looked at him over the kid’s shoulder, one plump hand patting his back. “Hello, Crowley,” he said. “I’m afraid Yichen has had a bit of a... difficult day today.”

“Dad threw me out again,” Yichen clarified, although he was mostly talking to the sofa back, since he was still hugging Aziraphale about the shoulders. “I think he means it this time. Even if he doesn’t, I’ve got fuck-all idea where to go meanwhile.” He pulled away, sitting up straight again, wiping at his eyes. “Sorry about that, Mr Fell.”

“Think nothing of it.”

Crowley’s mouth twisted. “‘S like two degrees out there tonight. Can’t let you be out in that.”

He popped his glasses up just long enough to meet Aziraphale’s eyes. “Need a real guardian angel to survive that.”

Aziraphale nodded, a smile touching his face, replaced with a calculating look. “This drafty old place will hardly do unless we can’t find you anything better... did you try anywhere else yet, dear boy?”

Yichen shook his head. “Came straight here.” He swiped at his eyes. “Sorry.”

“You did exactly right. Please excuse me while I make some calls.”

Aziraphale gave him one brief pat on the hand as he spoke, then rose and headed for the door. Crowley slid out of the way as he passed.

“Cancel dinner, then?”

“Would you, darling?” Aziraphale stopped just long enough to lean up and kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you for understanding.”

“You’re an angel, angel. It’s what you do.”

One last pretty smile, and then Aziraphale disappeared into his office.

Crowley looked over at Yichen. No real sign of panic, which was good. Also good that he’d had enough presence of mind to come knocking on the bookshop door. This wasn’t the first time Crowley had been left with a scared queer kid while Aziraphale made some calls, and they always wound up _somewhere_ safe.

“Need anything? Got a kettle in the corner for tea.” 

Yichen shook his head.

“Or blankets on the back of the sofa there.”

“Mr Fell already offered me all that stuff, thanks.”

Crowley hid a grin. “Course he did.”

He ambled over to the sofa, fiddling with his phone just long enough to cancel the dinner reservation, then flopped down a respectful distance away. “Yell if you change your mind. Aziraphale’d hate to have a guest go wanting.”

“How did you...” Yichen blurted the words out, then stopped, looking embarrassed. “Just... you’re both here. You made it. And I don’t know how I’m supposed to...” He curled up into himself, stocking feet on the sofa, arms around his own knees. Crowley nodded.

“‘S different for everyone, I think. Can’t tell you how it was for Aziraphale. Me, though...” He shrugged. “Mum didn’t boot me when I came out as bi, but she may as well’ve for all the support I got. I had my mates, and that helped. And I just kind of... fought through it.” Until he’d realized he was trans a couple years later, and then ran away from home to become a nanny. Not the kind of life choice he’d recommend now. “Stopped relying on the people I couldn’t trust, even if I still had to be around ‘em for a while. Dunno. I never have good advice for that one.”

Yichen made a sound that resembled a laugh, kind of. “‘Fight through it’. I’m getting tired of fighting.”

“It’s easier if you don’t do it alone. You’ve got friends, yeah? Ones who understand?”

Yichen nodded.

“Easier with someone else fighting next to you.” He smiled, thinking of himself and An and Liz, the three of them against the world. 

There was silence for a bit. Yichen shifted his hands around his knees. “We talk about you guys, sometimes. Not really my couple of friends who’re straight, but.”

Crowley wondered who the hell would talk about him and An and Liz, but then he got it. 

“We all kinda figured Mr Fell was gay, because, you know.”

“Uh huh,” Crowley said dryly.

“But he never had anyone,” Yichen went on, “not since Debbie has been in Soho, and that’s five or six years, I think. Then this guy starts hanging around, and he dresses like an arsehole, and we figure we’re going to have to save Mr Fell from him, because he does so much for us and we can’t just let him...” He shrugged.

“Wh. You and your friends thought you’d have to save Aziraphale from, what, my evil wiles?”

Yichen shrugged again. “Sort of.”

Crowley didn’t want to laugh, because the kid would probably think it was at him, but... “Thought everyone had decided he was some kind of master criminal. Thought I’d be the one to need saving from him.”

Yichen gave him a look. “Come on, Mr Crowley. We _know_ him.”

“Yeah,” Crowley answered, and probably he could’ve tried to fight the soppy smile that was spreading over his face, but fuck it. That was _his_ soft little angel, now. The man who, once you actually met him, you realized couldn’t possibly hurt anyone at all. His. Still didn’t seem real.

“We were wrong, though. About you. Sorry.”

Crowley smirked. “Not gonna split us up for his sake, then?”

Yichen laughed, a good healthy laugh that made Crowley feel a lot better about the kid’s emotional state, right up until the next words completely turned his brain upside-down. “Split you up? We’ve got a betting pool on when the wedding’ll be. I’ve got first week of June.”

“Uh.”

“Hope I’m still around to collect.” He frowned. “I could maybe stay with Grace and her family, for a while anyway...”

“To, uh —” Collect. On the betting pool. About when he and Aziraphale would be getting married. “Look, you don’t — Aziraphale will, will figure something out. Okay? He always does.”

Yichen’s mouth ticked up in something resembling a smile. “I guess.”

That was about all Crowley had left in him for comforting thoughts, but they only had to wait a couple more minutes until Aziraphale returned, so it wasn’t too bad.

“I apologize for the wait, dear boy.” He bustled in, the odd note back in his voice, crisp and businesslike. The same way he sounded when protecting his books. He smiled, and the expression lit up his eyes genuinely enough, but it slipped away as he spoke, mouth going set and firm. “My very good friends who run a small hotel have a lovely room available. I’ve a taxicab on the way now, and the hotel staff know you’ll be coming.” 

Yichen gaped at him. “I can’t afford a hotel —”

“All taken care of, no need to fret. The room will be yours for a week to start, and we’ll go from there. The cab is already paid for.” Aziraphale smiled again, then, and the determined line between his brows smoothed out a bit. “The choice is yours, of course, but — I promise you will be safe there. Much safer than... than bunking down with friends who might have their own... situations.”

“But —”

Aziraphale raised a hand. “It is over in Pimlico, I’m afraid, which might be less convenient when your classes start up again after the holidays. But I’m hopeful we will have something else for you by then. And if you prefer for me to cancel the stay...”

Yichen shook his head. “I’ll go. I... Thanks, Mr Fell.” He looked at Crowley. “Thanks, Mr Crowley.”

“Uh. Sure.”

Aziraphale filled the rest of the time with offers of tea and cocoa and biscuits, but Yichen turned it all down again, sitting quietly with his head lowered. When the taxi arrived, he stopped briefly as Aziraphale was walking him to the door.

“First week of June,” he said to Crowley. “I get fifty quid.”

Aziraphale looked confused, but ushered the kid out to the shop floor anyway. Which was good, because it left Crowley alone with his extremely flustered thoughts. His face was more or less done being on fire by the time Aziraphale returned.

“On a night like this,” Aziraphale sighed, sitting next to him on the sofa. There was another sigh, and then Crowley found himself with an angel slumped so far against him as to practically be in his lap. “Sometimes I am glad to have not realized my heart until I was on my own. There was no one to turn me out in the cold by then.”

Crowley smoothed his fingers through the pretty white-blond curls. “Late bloomer, huh? Don’t think I knew that about you.”

“Mmm. I simply thought I was broken until I was all but done with university. It was quite a shock to realize otherwise.”

“Wouldn’t’ve been broken either way, angel.” Crowley shifted his legs a bit, trying to make himself a slightly less uncomfortable surface. “Would’ve been perfectly you.”

“Yes, well. I’ve learned since then.”

Aziraphale wiggled about until his head rested in Crowley’s scrawny lap. He looked up, not quite meeting Crowley’s eyes, until Crowley remembered he still had the sunglasses on. Fixing that earned him a brilliant smile.

“I have never regretted loving men.” One pudgy hand rose to touch Crowley’s cheek, to stroke his jaw. “But I was never glad of it, either. Not before.”

Crowley caught the hand. Kissed each soft knuckle, because he could.

“I hope they don’t regret it either.” Aziraphale sighed again. “The younger ones. They shouldn’t have to suffer because of who they are, any of them.”

“‘S getting better, I think. Slowly.”

“Hmm.”

The hand turned in his, fingers interlocking perfectly.

“And they have their guardian angel.”

Aziraphale squeezed his hand. “You’ll find any excuse to call me that, won’t you.”

“Uh huh.” Crowley grinned. “Their guardian angel. My pretty little angel. Angel, angel, angel. That’s you.”

Aziraphale sat up again, arms going around Crowley’s waist, pulling them close together. Crowley let himself curl up against Aziraphale’s chest. It was broad and soft, same as the rest of him, and when he tucked his fingers under the lapel of the waistcoat, the padded flesh gave gently under his touch.

“Angel,” he said one more time. Softly. “Love calling you that. ‘S what you are. Kind and loving, and. And beautiful.” He slid his hand across Aziraphale’s chest until he could feel the sweet thudding of his heart. “They’re lucky to have you. So’m I.”

“You _do_ have me, you know.” Aziraphale’s arms around him were steady, holding him tight. “I... feel as though you doubt that, sometimes. But I chose you, Crowley. I did. I do.”

Crowley nodded, not bothering to try to speak. Not wanting to talk about this now anyway. Or ever. His doubts were his own problem, something that was all him. He refused to bother Aziraphale with any of it.

Instead, he just let himself be held. Concentrated on Aziraphale’s heartbeat under his palm, quiet and gentle and slow.

* * *

They ended up finding an Indian restaurant which somehow was both open and not completely mobbed. The pakoras were rubbery, the rice was dry, and when Aziraphale took his first bite of palak paneer, his eyes didn’t flutter ecstatically closed at all. It was still perfect. They sat together in a dim corner, talking about anything and everything and nothing at all. 

When their dessert arrived, Crowley half-jokingly offered up a chunk of gulab jamun on his own spoon. Aziraphale looked at it — looked at him — smiled. Leaned forward and opened his mouth.

Somehow, Crowley’s hand barely shook at all. The bit of rose-syruped dough slid neatly into Aziraphale’s mouth, no dropping it or anything. And this time there was the flutter of eyelids, the hum of delight. From something Crowley had fed him. _Crowley_ had made that look of absolute bliss possible. 

Crowley was absolutely, definitely going to die right here. He could already feel himself starting to slump over the table. Perish face-down in that bit of spilled chana masala, he would. Worth it. It’d all been worth it.

Warmth covered the back of his hand. Aziraphale’s thumb rubbed tenderly over his trembling knuckles.

“Love?”

Crowley put his other hand over his face. “Fffff. You’re _killing_ me, Aziraphale. Gimme a minute to — I can’t —”

The hand stilled on his. “I read the most delightful article the other day,” Aziraphale said, his voice gentle. “Apparently there are seals living in the Thames. It’s marvelous, really — the river was declared completely dead barely a half-century ago, you know — but it seems they've been thriving for years, now.”

“Seals,” Crowley said.

“Oh yes. There was a record number of pups spotted this year. They must be doing very well.”

Crowley pulled in enough oxygen to go on for at least the next few moments. “Eat fish, don’t they, seals?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“Huh.”

The hand patted his once. No romance in the gesture, really, just friendly concern. Yichen had gotten the same treatment earlier. But Crowley could have more, if he wanted. He could turn his hand over on the table, inviting Aziraphale to hold it. To tangle his round fingers up in Crowley’s. 

He turned his hand over. The round fingers tangled in his without hesitation.

“I love it when you’re happy,” he mumbled into his other hand. “When you’re reading some stupid book, or when you’ve got your tea just the way you like it. When you eat something good. Anything that makes you happy, I want — I just want all of it for you. So you’ll always feel like that.”

Aziraphale made a little noise, and his fingers twitched briefly.

“Buy you a thousand gulab jamun to see you do that face again. Go with you to a million boring plays to make you smile. That’s all.” He let out a shaky breath. “That’s all.”

“You... you do realize what makes me happiest of all, yes?”

Crowley lowered his hand enough to look at Aziraphale. Shook his head.

The fingers in his twitched again, then gripped more firmly. Aziraphale’s eyes crinkled, soft smile spreading across his pretty face, and he looked at Crowley, just _looked_ at him...

“Oh,” Crowley whispered.

Aziraphale nodded. Dropped his gaze to the table, although his smile never faltered. “More than I ever imagined. Even when imagining was all I had... when I loved you so much, yet was sure you’d never...”

Crowley’s throat tightened, the pain so abrupt that he couldn’t help a tiny whimper. “But I did. I did, I —”

He pulled his hand out of Aziraphale’s, but only so he could hide his face more thoroughly. “Eat your dessert, angel. Then let’s go back to the bookshop. Can die of feelings in private.”

There was a thoughtful little _hmm_. “Will you be up to a kiss by midnight, do you think?”

Crowley’s face went fission-hot against his palms. “God, I hope so. Sooner’n that. You think I want to wait till next year to kiss you again?”

There was silence, just for a second or two, and then he heard Aziraphale’s high giggle. Crowley couldn’t help a weak chuckle himself. His mouth again. Given nothing better to do, it would always fill itself with flirtatious nonsense.

Not nonsense at all, though. Not really. Loving Aziraphale made more sense than anything else in his entire life.

* * *

“Angel?”

Aziraphale stirred against him. Smoothed a bit of hair back from his forehead. “Yes, dear?”

“D’you know what makes me happiest in the whole stupid world?”

“Hmm.”

Crowley had his eyes closed, head leaning against the back of the sofa, so he couldn’t see whether Aziraphale was smiling. Sounded like he was, though. Sounded like he was about to be an absolute bastard again.

“Your car, undoubtedly. The love of your life, isn’t she?”

Crowley made a face. “No.”

“Then,” and Aziraphale snuggled even closer to him, the hand not in his hair tracing up and down his side, “your plants. You take such good care of them, after all. They’re so lush and green.”

“_An_gel.”

“Casting aspersions on my perfectly reasonable hobbies?”

“You,” Crowley said, opening his eyes so he could aim an eyebrow in the right direction, “think reading two versions of a book at once, just to compare them, is _fun_.”

Aziraphale lowered his head and pouted. “Well, it is.”

The conversation stalled for a moment while Crowley placed a finger under that gorgeous folded chin, bending down enough that Aziraphale could close the distance if he wanted, and then very carefully kissing away his pout when he did.

“Getting warmer,” he said at length. “That’s not what makes me happiest. But it’s close.”

The silence was more thoughtful this time. When Aziraphale spoke again, his voice was very small.

“Is it me?”

Crowley’s chest filled up with light, spilling into his throat, hurting so much that he hoped it would never end. He nodded.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured, nuzzling into his chest. “My Crowley. My only, only one.”

Crowley stroked the gentle curves of his shoulder. Could spend a lifetime just doing that, really. Maybe two. Especially when Aziraphale sighed like this, relaxing under his arm and going even softer. Yeah. Three lifetimes, at least.

The buzzing of his phone roused them at last. “Mnh,” Crowley remarked. “Almost fell asleep.”

He extracted himself from around Aziraphale just long enough to grab his phone from the table.

“Five minutes to midnight.” Crowley looked down at Aziraphale, eyes closed, face quiet. “You awake?”

“Perhaps,” Aziraphale murmured.

“K.”

At thirty seconds to go, he pressed his lips against Aziraphale’s white-fluff hair. Aziraphale raised his head, looking into his eyes.

“Happy New Year, angel.”

Aziraphale’s lips curved sweetly. “You know, I rather think it will be.”

He tilted his chin up, mouth soft, and Crowley took the hint. Kissed him slow and gentle, and welcomed the endless tender ache in his chest as Aziraphale kissed him back the exact same way.

Crowley started his next year on this weird little mudball just right. With an angel in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I learned the seals-in-the-Thames thing from PeturbingPrism's [Argumentum a fortiori](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20752415/chapters/49309895) (human AU where Crowley is a barrister and Aziraphale is in a little legal trouble and Anathema is fun), and was delighted to be able to use it here. [Here's the article!](https://www.theguardian.com/environment/2019/sep/02/river-thames-home-to-138-baby-seals-latest-count-finds)
> 
> I hope you will all join me again on Thursday. Chapter 21 contains the third of three chunks of content which I wrote ahead back in late September, and judging from previous comments and conversation, I think a number of my core readers are going to enjoy it.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale both have their own unsettled ghosts to try to put to rest. The process of trying to do so is sometimes uncertain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter-specific warning notes:**
> 
>   * a Very Difficult Therapy Session for Crowley with a lot of negative self-image getting expressed
>   * Internalized fatphobia including use of the word “fat” from Aziraphale which is slightly Softer than the last one, so if you were okay with that one you should be okay here
> 
> Bit of housekeeping:
> 
> 1\. I plan to update as usual next week! One INNW chapter on Monday the 23rd, one chapter on Thursday the 26th.  
2\. I am still behind on replies to everyone's lovely comments, but now it's only by about a week and a half! I promise I have not ignored anyone (or, alternately, I have ignored everyone equally).

Lara frowned. “I feel as though you’ve been fighting me on this. It’s been a few weeks since we’ve really made any progress at all.”

“Oh, since _we’ve_ made progress, sure.” Crowley scowled at the brick wall behind her. “We. Lot of hard work for you, isn’t it, putting up with my shit.”

“Sometimes, but that’s the job.” Her voice was dry. “And I like working with you when you’re at least willing to _try_ to work with me. Even when you don’t see the point.”

Crowley shook his head. “‘M tired of trying. It’s not — look, it’s just how it is. I’m a, a fucking disappointment of a human being. I’m faking it pretty good right now, and that’s fine. That’s great. Means I still have the job, and all my friends, and —” His hands tightened into fists against his thighs. “And Aziraphale. He still thinks I’m worth having around, and I’m gonna take that as long as I can. Someday he’ll know better. They’ll all know better. I’ve accepted that.”

“What’s going to change their minds?”

“They’ll just figure it out.” Crowley rubbed his eyes under the glasses. He hated having to actually talk about this. Bad enough just having to think about it all the time. “They don’t see every time I fuck up, okay? I do. So I already know how useless I am. It just, just takes them longer. All adds up eventually.”

“There’s no score being kept.”

“Well, there should be!”

She looked like she was about to say something, and it would probably be calm and logical and really fucking irritating, so he kept going. “Like, yeah, everyone fucks up. Everyone forgets to pick up the roast for dinner, _again_. Everyone knocks all the shit off their desk, _again_. But there’s a limit, you know? And after a point they fucking well do start adding up.” His eyes were starting to water, but fuck if he was going to draw attention to it by wiping them. “Only get to make the exact same mistake so many hundreds of times before it’s obvious you’re just garbage.”

Lara nodded. Tapped her pencil against her notebook. “How many times has Liz forgotten the groceries?”

“Wh — how would I know?”

“How many times has Eric tried to carry too many things at once and dropped them?”

“Look, I _knew_ it was stupid and I did it _anyway_, you don’t get a free pass when —”

“Aziraphale’s probably knocked things off desks before.” Lara couldn’t look him in the eye, of course, but damned if she didn’t do her best. “How many times can he do it before you’ll stop loving him?”

All the air was punched out of Crowley’s lungs. He clenched a hand, pressing the knuckles against his mouth, and didn’t say anything.

“If you wouldn’t keep score for any of them, then it doesn’t make sense to keep it for yourself.”

“They’ve earned it.” Crowley’s voice was a throatful of knives. “I haven’t.”

“You have.” Lara didn’t usually do gentle, but her tone now was almost enough to start him bawling just on its own. “Crowley, you earn it just by being human. Just by being.”

Crowley shook his head. “Don’t think I’m a proper human.”

He gave up on trying to hide the tears, pulling off his glasses with one hand and covering his eyes with the other. There was a box of tissues that he hadn’t had to use much in the past, but he still managed to find it without looking.

“I j-just wish they could never find that out.”

In the darkness behind his eyelids was Aziraphale, and Liz and Anathema and everyone, all the people who at least tolerated him now, but that couldn’t last forever, could it? Not for him. He’d look up one day and realize they were all in the rearview, all moved on to a friend or a flatmate or a boyfriend who actually added something to their lives. Added something good without taking more away.

Crowley grabbed more tissues.

“I’m going to sit here quietly with you, okay? I’m here, but we don’t have to talk more until you’re ready. Sound good?”

He nodded. Tried to sob as little as possible until they finally dried up a bit.

“Just. Have to deal with it,” he mumbled eventually. “Be as useful to everyone as I can while I can. Deal with it when they leave.”

Lara took a second to reply. “Have you ever told any of your friends that you feel this way?”

“Oh, sure.” Crowley dunked his wad of tissues into the trash and put his glasses back on. “Remind them that ditching me is an option. Fantastic advice, really, thanks so much.”

“It might be good for them to know the expectations you have for them, though. And —” She did the thing where she got awfully close to looking him right in the eye again. “And it might be good for you to hear the expectations they have of you. And to _try_ to believe what you hear. Even if you can’t right now.”

Crowley rubbed at his mouth.

“You tell me how much you worry about Aziraphale, how badly you want to reassure him of what he means to you. Have you considered how happy he might be to reassure you, if you gave him the chance?”

“Seems like you’ve got it all worked out without me needing to answer.” The idea was almost enough to make him cry again. Oh, sure, the most wonderful beautiful man in the world, wasting his time comforting _Crowley_, yes, _that_ wouldn’t be a fucking travesty or anything... “He’s got half the damn world telling him there’s something wrong with him, of course he needs reassuring. I’m just, just, me. It’s different.”

Lara nodded. “I’d like you to try to do something for me over the next few days, if you can. If I’m wrong, and it’s just a waste of your time, then you can tell me so next week. Okay?”

“Fine.” Crowley slumped back until his chin was practically on his chest. “Fine.”

“Sometime when you’re feeling up to it, I’d like you to think about someone you care about, and then imagine that you can look inside their head. And inside you can see these same kind of thoughts, these same arguments.” Crowley started to protest, but she held up a hand as she went on. “Imagine that they are totally convinced that there’s something about them, individually, that makes them not worthy of the same love and patience they’d give everyone else. What would you tell them to try to convince them otherwise?” She raised an eyebrow. “You can’t just tell them ‘Hey, at least you’re not Anthony Crowley.’ They won’t buy that because they’re doing the same thing. You want to help them, you’re going to have to find something else.”

Crowley glared. Seconds passed. “Right. Won’t make a difference, so why not.”

“There, that’s the reaction I like to see from you.” Lara’s voice was dry again, casually sarcastic. Like solid ground after he’d been drowning in feelings for forty-five minutes. “Makes me feel like we’re really connecting.”

“Yeah. Connecting. Real connected. Feeling the love.”

In the Bentley, he just sat for a while, leaning on the wheel. Eventually he got out his phone.

_hey guess what_

He worked on his next text while waiting for a reply.

_Yes, dearest?_

Crowley smiled weakly, hit Send, and spammed Aziraphale with about a hundred heart emojis.

_just fyi_, he added.

* * *

The problem was that it was a new year. A new, fresh, marvelous beginning, but he was still the same old Crowley. Did he deserve the well-paid job and the comfortable flat and the stunning boyfriend? Nope. The year on the calendar didn’t change that.

Aziraphale bought tickets to a play, a funny one, and they held hands all through the first half, Crowley hanging dizzily on every high, clear laugh. During intermission, they wandered the lobby together. At one point Aziraphale mentioned that he was glad he’d been able to get such excellent seats.

“Thought I saw a few empty ones more in the middle,” Crowley replied. “Were those just really expensive or something?”

Aziraphale had tucked a hand into Crowley’s arm, soft and gentle against him. His fingers tensed just a little, now, even though there wasn’t anything unusual in his pretty voice. “Most of the theater seating was remodeled some years ago, but the center orchestra is original. Quite historic, actually. Those seats are, ah, too small.”

He stopped walking. Crowley looked down at him.

“For me to fit.”

Fuck. His stupid mouth, his stupid _self_... “I’m sorry, I didn’t...”

“It isn’t your fault, Crowley. It’s not something you have to think about.” Aziraphale looked around, frowning slightly, then pressed closer to him. “You’re accustomed to there... being room for you, everywhere you go. You’re... well, normal.”

Crowley flinched. “_Angel_.”

“Can we — can we move out of the way, please? Closer to the wall —”

He let Aziraphale tug him from the center of the lobby, over to the wall between a couple of benches. Aziraphale lost the frown, which was good, but he also moved away again. Dropped Crowley’s arm and clasped his hands in front of himself. His back was almost against the wall.

“Thank you. I just — need a moment.”

“Aziraphale.” Crowley kept his voice quiet. Careful. “Tell me how I can help.”

The eyes that turned up to his were dry, but that wasn’t much comfort. Not when there was this much hurt and weariness in them. “I’ll be fine, dear. I’m terribly sorry; I don’t know what came over me. I’m really quite used to this sort of thing, although — now my... my _size_ is impacting you, too —”

“D’you know where there’ll always be room for you?”

“Beg pardon?”

Still the same quiet voice. “One place I promise there’ll always be room for you. Enough for you to fit exactly right.”

“I’m afraid I don’t...”

Crowley raised a hand to tap the opposite arm. Switched hands and did it again.

The tiniest bit of life came back into Aziraphale’s eyes. “Even here? With all of these people about?”

“C’mere and I’ll prove it, if you want. Hold you as long as you’ll let me.”

Which was really the key phrase. As long as Aziraphale would let him.

“Oh. I’m not sure I... well. Perhaps best not cause a scene. But...” Aziraphale put one hand on Crowley’s arm, the wounded look in his eyes almost gone, now. “Thank you, Crowley. I love you so awfully much.”

_Somehow you do_, Crowley thought. _Even though you’re better off without me. Even though I do more harm than good._

_You... you don’t think that about you, do you? Because it’s not true about you. I’d sit in the worst seats forever if they were the only ones that fit you. Anywhere you can’t go isn’t anywhere I want to be._

“Need two hearts,” was all he said, resting his hand over Aziraphale’s. “One’s not enough. Got love spilling out all over my, my pancreas. Messy stuff.”

Aziraphale’s mouth twitched. “You’re a poet, darling.”

“Words are your thing.” Crowley smoothed his thumb over Aziraphale’s knuckles. “Actions is easier.”

The lobby lights dimmed, then came back up.

“Actions can be very public,” Aziraphale murmured. “Not everyone is comfortable with declaring their feelings so openly.”

Crowley pulled his hand away, taking a step back as the lights dimmed again. “Sorry. Sorry, I —”

“Especially,” Aziraphale went on, “their feelings for someone who’s so.” A bare pause before he let the word go. “Fat.” He reached up, putting his hands on Crowley’s shoulders, closing the space between them again. “Some would find those feelings far too shameful to admit.”

“‘M so _fucking_ proud of you, angel.” Crowley’s hands clenched at his sides. “_So_ proud.”

Others were filing past behind him as the lights went one more time. None of them mattered. Only Aziraphale mattered. His hands sliding up to Crowley’s harsh cheeks, cradling them like they weren’t made of bones and angles. “My Crowley.” He smiled, a real one, small but shining. “We should probably return to the theater. The intermission is nearly over.”

His hands didn’t move,though. Still held Crowley’s face with a touch gentle enough to burn.

“There enough time to, uh, let everyone know where we stand? If you’re okay with...”

Aziraphale beamed up at him.

“...that...”

Crowley settled his hands onto Aziraphale’s soft chest, then kissed him on the corner of the mouth.

Aziraphale sighed. Met him for the next kiss, no corner of the mouth here. Dead-center, this time.

Crowley didn’t push him back against the wall, exactly. But they did end up there, his body pressing into Aziraphale’s, publicly declaring their relationship for almost long enough to miss the start of the second half.

_You’re incredible_, he tried to say without having to use words. _I’m a miserable excuse for a human being, but you’re incredible. You’re glorious. You’re perfect._

* * *

“Fuck. It’s really coming down out there.”

They’d come back to the bookshop after the play for wine and conversation. For cuddling too, of course, Aziraphale curling up against Crowley. Mostly upright at first. Half in his lap after a couple glasses, warm and glowing and deliciously heavy.

It’d been hours since they’d finished the bottle. Well past midnight. Very much time for Crowley to get in the Bentley and drive home, except it was pouring rain.

And he didn’t want to leave. There was that, too.

Aziraphale made an unhappy little noise against Crowley’s chest. “I don’t like the idea of you going out in this. I’d worry terribly.”

“I mean. ‘S not that long of a drive. Should be okay.” He kept drawing his fingers through Aziraphale’s hair. “I’ll, I’ll wait a few minutes. See if it slows down.”

The soft body stilled against his. “Or you could stay.”

He could, couldn’t he. There was no fear in an offer of the sofa anymore. No deeper meaning to be wary of. He was safe with Aziraphale.

Crowley ruffled his pale hair. “Prob’ly a good idea. You should head up to bed too. I can let myself out in the morning —”

“Beloved.” Aziraphale shifted, looking up at him now, a delicate blush touching his cheeks. “I meant stay with me.”

Crowley breathed in. Out.

“Upstairs.” The blush deepened.

One more deep breath, and still Crowley’s voice came out barely more than a cracked whisper. “You’re inviting me to your flat.”

“I’m inviting you to my _bed_, Crowley,” Aziraphale replied, and there was so much fond exasperation in those words that Crowley wanted to laugh and cry and squeeze him to pieces all at once.

“I — yes,” he said, pushing the words out past all the feeling that’d gummed up his throat. “I’ll stay. With you.”

Aziraphale’s eyes shimmered. “Shall we go upstairs, then?”

Crowley nodded, then laughed. Took the offered hand, once Aziraphale had stood, had reached it out to him. He let himself be led to the spiral staircase, and up it, into the place that was Aziraphale’s alone.

“Sitting room,” Aziraphale remarked, as they passed through a dim space scattered through with furniture. “Kitchen there. Please consider it yours if you need anything in — in the night.” Down a short hallway. “The closed doors are rooms I don’t use currently... washroom here...”

He paused on a dark threshold, reaching inside. His other hand tightened against Crowley’s. “My bedroom.”

The lights went on, two soft lamps, one on a dresser and the other on a low bookcase. It was all antiques, same as the furniture down in the shop: dresser and bookcase, wooden chair in a corner, and two little nightstands, one of these weighed down with books and a goosenecked lamp which would probably not be soft-lit at all.

Crowley stared in shock at the bed for long enough that Aziraphale started to flutter nervously beside him, pulling gently on his hand. “Dearest...?”

“Wh,” Crowley sputtered. “It. It’s _not_ tartan?”

Aziraphale tsked. “How single-minded do you actually think I am? No, not all my bedding is tartan.”

“So some of it is.”

“...all right, yes, some of it is.” Aziraphale tsked again when Crowley started grinning. “You horrid man.”

But he was smiling, too, and his arms were suddenly around Crowley’s shoulders, hands in his hair. Crowley’s own arms were around Aziraphale’s beautiful waist, hands squeezing gently at him through the layers of clothing. He had no idea which of them had moved first. Didn’t care.

“Go brush your teeth, you horrid man.” Aziraphale pecked a kiss against his jaw. “There’s an extra toothbrush in the cabinet which you may open. The cold water tap is a bit loose.”

“Maybe I’ll leave it running. Teach you to call me names.” He forced himself to pull away, brushing his teeth in the drafty little bathroom, along with taking care of the other stuff which Aziraphale seemed to use the phrase to cover. Then they traded off, Crowley tossing his trousers and overshirt on the chair in the corner, making himself comfortable on the side of the bed that wasn’t equipped with a reading light.

It wasn’t long before Aziraphale returned.

“Please tell me you’re not sleeping in the waistcoat.”

“No. I’ll be changing.” He cleared his throat. “Would you turn around, please?”

Crowley did, closing his eyes for good measure. There was a series of rustling sounds. He smiled when the covers whispered back, when the bed sank under new weight; then a hand touched his shoulder.

“You may — may look, now.”

He turned back, mouth already opening to say something soppy. _You’re beautiful_, maybe, or _I love you_. Or just that old standby _Hi angel_. Combine all three. That would be good too.

What he kept forgetting was how easy it was for Aziraphale to strike him absolutely wordless. He didn’t even have to try. He just had to sit there, pyjama-clad legs pulled up onto the bed, half-folded to the side as he leaned toward Crowley. One hand balanced on the mattress, while the other was just lifting from Crowley’s shoulder.

The pyjama bottoms were gray, a warm and gentle color which reminded Crowley of how Aziraphale’s eyes could look sometimes, in the right light. There was no matching gray top, though. There was nothing at all. 

Aziraphale sat before him, utterly naked from the waist up, and his pale skin glowed in the lamplight, and his body spread wide and bare with not a stitch to hide it.

Even though Aziraphale meant, had to have meant, for Crowley to see, it still felt wrong, _unfair_ of him to be looking. But he couldn’t look away. Aziraphale’s pretty face shaded so enticingly into his broad neck, into his plump shoulders, the gentle swell of flesh on his arms; his chest was so wonderfully rounded, the light dusting of pale hair not hiding its soft contours; and then, of course, his belly — 

Crowley had seen it through clothing, through a thin shirt. Had he thought it’d been beautiful like that, still masked, still obscured? That was nothing. That was the palest ghost of beauty. This, though... seen like this, it was _divine_. 

It formed clearly from this seated position into the two rolls which Crowley had felt, hands wondering and wandering and blessed, back at the Youngs’ house. The top one pushed out from beneath Aziraphale’s chest, round and full, pulling back just a bit inward above his navel, wrapping broadly around his sides. The bottom roll was even wider, even fuller. It circled Aziraphale’s precious body in an arc that filled half his lap; except it wasn’t just a single arc, but a beautiful sinuous curve, sweeping outward where it flowed into his thick love handles on either side, then subtly dipping inward before rounding out again in front of him. Everything moved gently with his breath, rising and falling. An ocean of soft flesh which Crowley loved, which he adored, instantly and achingly and with his whole heart. 

Crowley could feel his own breath coming faster, now. No, this wasn’t for him. This couldn’t be for him. He looked into Aziraphale’s eyes, trying to understand what was happening, why he’d suddenly been given... this.

Those eyes were wide and staring. Aziraphale’s face was pale, mouth trembling a little. His voice shook. “I — love you, Crowley. And I know you love me, that you believe you can — can love _all_ of me, and I...” He pressed a hand to his lips for a few seconds. “I just want you to understand what that means. What I am.”

“You're _glorious_.” Crowley reached out, then snatched his hand back. No green light yet. “All of you. Every bit of you, how could I _not_ love all of you, I —”

Aziraphale’s face wasn’t pale anymore. It was filling in with color, cheeks pinking into an unmistakable blush. He covered the bottom half of his face with his hands, closing his eyes and pulling in a huge breath, then lay very carefully back onto the bed. His incredible body shifted as he did so, as he exhaled. Flattened out by gravity into entirely new wondrous shapes.

“You really do mean it,” he said. “You really, truly mean it.”

“Course I do.”

“No, but Crowley...” Aziraphale lowered his hands to rest at his sides, turning his head to look at Crowley. “I could... could ask you to touch me, and you would, wouldn’t you. You’d _want_ to.”

“I.” Crowley nodded. Moved over until he was sitting right next to him. “I would. I do.”

“Well.” A brief dart of the eyes, away, before they were solidly locked on Crowley’s again. “Then...”

Crowley nodded again. Reached out — so slowly, more than enough time to stop, to be asked to stop — and rested a hand against the warm skin of Aziraphale’s side. “Okay?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale whispered.

“Okay.”

He let his fingers just stay there for a moment, soaking up the warmth, the inviting softness of the skin. Started trailing them up and over the spreading curve of Aziraphale’s belly. The feel of it was exquisite, tender flesh giving gently beneath his touch, the skin smooth and almost velvety until suddenly it wasn’t.

His fingertips skated over a dip. They traced it, up and down, finding a narrow channel in Aziraphale’s skin, like a riverbed in the continent of his belly.

“Oh,” Crowley said, through a throat that ached with love. “Stretch marks.”

Aziraphale was still blushing, not meeting his eyes. “Yes, I... I do have rather a lot of those, unfortunately. If you’d prefer to not —”

“Angel.” He ran his fingers over the spot again. He could see them, pale white against pale pink, now that he was looking for them. Row upon row of stripes ran across the widest parts of him, the sweet soft flawless rolls. Spidery lines trailed down where front started curving around to become side. It was one of these that his fingers had discovered.

“Angel,” he said again. “They’re perfect.”

He thought about how it must have been, years or decades ago, when the universe had decided that there needed to be more of Aziraphale. His body had shrugged, had done its job, pushing things around and making room. Stretching bits out here and there to fit the man Crowley would eventually love. And here he was. Every beautiful inch of him.

“I want to kiss them all, I think.” He paused. “Still okay?”

“Y — yes.” When Crowley hesitated, Aziraphale made eye contact just long enough to say it again. “Yes.”

Crowley tried his idea out, leaning down, pressing his lips to one of the faint snaking lines that glowed across Aziraphale’s belly. Something in his chest teetered, plummeted, then _soared_. “O-okay. Yeah. Yes.” He brushed a kiss against another. A third, one of the horizontal stripes, and he closed his eyes as impossibly lovely skin gave way beneath his lips. “Definitely want to kiss them all.”

Aziraphale’s blush deepened even more. He’d covered his face with a hand, although one bright eye still peeked out. “It would take a very long time to do all of them, I’m afraid.”

“I could work out a — a grid system.” He grinned loopily as he traced invisible lines on Aziraphale, up and down, side to side. “Divide it up into, wh, organized cells. One cell a day till I was done. It’d take a while, but it’d be very, you know. Scientific. Very thorough.”

Aziraphale’s voice, when he answered, was almost inaudible. “And what if, at some point, there were... new ones?”

Which was really a different question. It was “What if I gain even more weight?” It was “What if I get even fatter?”

“New ones jump to the front of the queue,” Crowley answered. “Like a ‘welcome to Aziraphale’s body’ thing.” He felt tears prickling his eyes, lumping up at the back of his throat. “Like a ‘welcome home’.”

“Home,” Aziraphale repeated. “Crowley.”

“I love all of you, angel.” He settled one palm against the wide surface. “‘S no upper limit on that.”

Aziraphale sat back up, the shift in gravity reshaping his softness, pushing Crowley’s hand away. “Crowley,” he said again. He threw his arms around Crowley’s shoulders, surging forward against him. Chest to chest and skinny abdomen to gorgeous round belly and his fiery face pressed against Crowley’s neck. “My Crowley. My darling. My sweet beloved boy.”

“Hey,” Crowley managed, although the word trembled a bit. “I’m not sweet. I’m, you know, cool. Aloof, like.”

Aziraphale’s voice broke in a sob. “My dearest treasure.”

It took a moment of very cautious breathing before Crowley thought he’d be okay. Couldn’t claim to be cool and then immediately start crying.

He held Aziraphale tightly, wondering yet again at how perfect his angel felt there, wrapped in his arms, so soft and fat and _right_. What if he’d never moved to Soho with Anathema and Liz? Or if he’d never taken the job at the Clover Cafe? What if — as idiotically as he’d managed to do it — what if he’d never, ever asked Aziraphale about his stupid muffin? 

He might never have had this. He might’ve gone his whole life and never known. But it had all gone right, all exactly right, and now everything in his life was a chain leading up to this moment. To him with a double armful of angel, and a neck currently soaking in angel tears.

Aziraphale was the one here who needed, _deserved_ to be reassured of his own value, as often as humanly fucking possible. That was obvious. Maybe Crowley was worth having around, was worth an angel’s love. Possibly. But he certainly wasn’t going to waste Aziraphale’s time with his doubts on that subject. Not when Aziraphale had enough to worry about already.

Crowley rubbed his back, not through a waistcoat or a shirt or anything now, but skin against skin. “All of you is perfect, angel. Just — amazing, and important, and, and good. Every single bit.” He kissed the white-fluff hair. “Because you’re you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains the last of three written-ahead bits I banked back at the end of September: about 800 words of adoring fat-positive non-sexual intimacy. I really hope the scene was as happy-making to read as it was for me to write (and then edit together so that it fit within the context of where INNW is today). 
> 
> (ilu all my fat people and I promise you're all perfect as you are, and perfect no matter how you might look tomorrow. It might be that there is a particular part of you that maybe makes you feel less good than other parts of you, sometimes. If so, and if you wish, you may now imagine Jack N. F. Ablefool telling it that it's doing a very good job of being just what it's supposed to be. Because it is! It's doing an excellent job being Your Arms or Your Belly or Your Knees or whatever it is, and I am proud of it. And I hope all of you has a very good day.)
> 
> (Final parenthetical: neither of my beautiful sons is done with his own healing process yet, and healing is a non-linear process anyway, there are better bits and worse bits... but I promise the Soft Zone will not let Crowley down in the end. Cross my heart an' hope to be prevented from wearing tartan _ever again_.)
> 
> Thank you all, as always, for reading. If you come back on Monday, there will be art which I made on my shiny new pen display!


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valentine's Day is coming up. It'll be the perfect day for Crowley to really show Aziraphale how much he loves him, if he can just not screw up the planning. Turns out several plans get upended before the big day, during an eventful walk through the park, in a conversation that does not go at all where Crowley intended it to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter-specific warning notes:** brief reference to homophobia.
> 
> **This chapter has art!** It is the first piece I have done that I really like since I started up drawing again, and I think my shiny new pen display may be part of that. You'll find a footnote-style link to the art in the text at about the spot it represents, but it won't be on Tumblr yet, because it is more spoilery than the art I've done thus far.
> 
> (Housekeeping note: getting close to caught up on replying to everyone's comments! I am now only six days behind.)

Of course Crowley knew Valentine’s Day was coming up. Of _course_ he did. Most romantic day of the year, wasn’t it? Perfect opportunity for him to let Aziraphale know how much he loved him. How completely and soul-shakingly he adored him.

So he had a reservation at a very romantic restaurant already made in secret, and a dozen red roses on order with a local florist, and there were some extremely fancy chocolates coming in the mail from a Parisian company with excellent online reviews. All the traditional stuff. The steps a bloke was supposed to follow to show his beloved how perfectly, utterly cherished he was.

So that was all taken care of. When he woke up one late January morning, it should have been a peaceful thing. There in his angel’s bed, he should have woken to a gentle kiss on the cheek (like last time), or the perfect weight of Aziraphale sprawled sleeping on top of him (like the time before that), or maybe even just needing to step across the hall, trying not to disturb Aziraphale as he rose. (Coming back to find him awake, curled up under the covers. Reaching for Crowley as Crowley climbed back into bed. “I thought perhaps I’d dreamed you,” Aziraphale had said, “that I’d dreamed —” And then he’d sighed, and murmured “I’m cold,” and Crowley had answered “Course you are, you’re not wearing a shirt. C’mere,” and held him close and tight. That had been how he’d woken up in Aziraphale’s bed the first time.)

What woke him today, though, was the sudden knowledge that it was all bollocks. Not the holiday, but the steps. What the hell was he doing, thinking he could get away with something so generic? Aziraphale didn’t enjoy restaurants for their _romance_. He didn’t care about _roses_. He... okay, so the chocolates were a good choice, Aziraphale loved chocolate, and Crowley loved watching him eat chocolate. So that part was fine. But the rest was formulaic tripe. 

Crowley woke that morning with quiet rain pattering against the windows, dim gray light filtering through the drapes. He woke with an angel beside him, soft and warm and tender in sleep. And he woke with the utter certainty that he was fucked.

* * *

“It really is the thought that counts, though, isn’t it?” Liz frowned at her phone, then passed it over to Anathema’s waiting hand. “That’s what I always think. I’ve been giving An roses every year for ages, even though she complains every time.”

“The roses are a prime example of the commercialization of the holiday. If we’re going to have any luck breaking away from the ravages of late-stage capitalism, we need to stop supporting the industries that power it.”

Liz smiled. “Yeah, but the roses are pretty, like you.”

Anathema didn’t blush, because she never did. But she got extremely interested in the phone. “What’d you even do to this thing?”

“I just tried reinstalling Instagram...”

Crowley, hanging over the arm of the sofa, decided that the ceiling was probably to blame for at least some of his troubles, so he glared at it very severely. “Look, the thought is nice, sure. And, and I know probably he’d like anything I gave him. The stupid roses, and the trendy romantic dinner, and whatever else.” 

“Of course he would. He adores you, Crowley.” Anathema tapped the phone screen a few times. “You should have had him over while you were still moping. We could’ve saved you a lot of trouble and just _told_ you both that it was mutual.”

Crowley poked her with a foot.

“What? Neither of you is subtle.” She handed the phone back to Liz. “Here you go, sweetie. I don’t think you’ll have to replace it this time.”

“Thank you!”

“But,” Crowley announced, poking Anathema with his foot again because he could. “He deserves something that’s for _him_. Not just some paint-by-numbers cliche.”

Liz made a thoughtful noise. “I don’t suppose it would work to buy him a book. Probably expensive, the kind he’d want.”

“Not to mention you have to, to be inducted into some bloody booksellers’ society to know where they’re even for sale.” Crowley pulled himself rightside-up again, then slouched in disgust. “All these auctions and estate sales and things, and I swear he finds out about them through some kind of _underground_.”

“Huh. So the rumors _are_ true.”

Crowley briefly debated throwing a sofa cushion at Anathema’s smirk. Liz started snickering, though, and there weren’t two cushions within reach, so he settled for oozing off his perch and wandering off someplace where he’d get a little more respect.

* * *

“Mr Crowley!”

He didn’t turn around at first, just kept walking toward the bookshop door. Nobody who actually knew him called him that. The “Mr” only got tacked on by medical professionals, or telemarketers, or —

Running footsteps on the pavement. “Mr Crowley, wait!”

Crowley turned. Leaned against the wall at first, then straightened up again. “Yichen. Hey. Haven’t seen you since, uh —”

“Yeah.” Yichen stopped a few feet away, looking pretty hesitant for having just yelled Crowley to a halt. “I just tried the shop on my way to study group, and Mr Fell’s out, but..." 

Damn. Probably a break for coffee, a snack, something Crowley could have joined him for, if he’d been a little earlier. Still. “You doing okay? Got a safe place? I know you were with Aziraphale’s friends for a while.”

The kid nodded, mouth pulling back crookedly. “Dad actually let me come back last week. Like, for real back. We talked. He’s not happy about, you know, the gay thing, but he’d rather have me not frozen to death, y’know?”

He laughed, and Crowley chuckled along politely, even though there was nothing funny about it. Nothing funny about Yichen freezing to death, or Sam, or Keith or Malaeka or any of them. Any of Aziraphale’s regulars who weren’t actually customers but only used the shop like a lifeline sometimes. Minor little thing. Barely worth mentioning. Certainly not worth worrying about now, what might’ve happened to the kid if he hadn’t come here first.

“But I just wanted to say thanks.” Yichen fiddled with his backpack strap. “To both of you, for, like. Being there when I needed you. You know?”

“Wh — yeah. Sure. I’ll tell Aziraphale when he gets back.” Crowley’s hands were as deep as they’d go in his pockets, but it was cold out, so that wasn’t exactly weird. “He’ll be happy. Probably give you extra cocoa next time you’re by. Try to help you with your homework or something.”

Yichen gave him a smile that was a little better than the last one. “You guys already helped a lot.”

Crowley mumbled something in response. Waved goodbye, then leaned against the doorframe to wait. He could’ve gone back to the Bentley, of course, or even just texted Aziraphale to find out where he was; but there was something satisfying about standing here, this exact spot, just where he’d done the very first time he’d stopped by. Hi, angel. Yes, I was waiting for you, in the cold. Yes, I’m a soppy idiot, but I’m your soppy idiot. How’re you?

Not too long of a wait, and then there he was, coming down the pavement. Bundled up in his winter coat, a tartan scarf wrapped around his neck. And earmuffs. The man was actually wearing fuzzy earmuffs today, and they looked ridiculous, and he was beautiful.

Aziraphale stopped for a moment, then started up again, hurrying faster now. Smiling broadly, and that gorgeous smile was all for Crowley. Lucky Crowley.

His heart very nearly literally fluttered. Just a little.

“Darling!” There was no mistaking the delight in Aziraphale’s voice. “I’m terribly sorry, I didn’t think you’d be by until later. I would have waited for you if I’d known.”

Crowley was already reaching for him as he approached, and Aziraphale stepped right into his arms, gloved hands delicately cradling the back of his head. His pretty round cheeks were flushed from the cold. Soft against Crowley’s lips, in the moment before Aziraphale drew him in for a proper kiss.

“Let’s get you inside, beloved. I notice that you’re barely dressed for the weather, _again_.”

“‘M wearing your scarf,” Crowley muttered, but he did let Aziraphale go just long enough for him to unlock the door.

“True enough. Although —” Aziraphale paused in the act of taking off his coat, gloves and earmuffs already tucked in a pocket. “You always seem to wear that one, still. I’d thought you would be glad to switch to the one Dierdre got you.”

Crowley felt his answer crowd up against his lungs, the short version and the slightly longer one. Watched Aziraphale hang up his coat in silence. Watched him take off his topcoat next. Round body twisting, shifting as he moved, waistcoat rising almost enough to expose the shirt beneath before being tugged back down again. 

“Hers is nice,” he said. Let the longer answer spill from his lips. “But this one’s — yours. Like it because it’s yours. Makes me think of you.”

He unwound it from his neck, then looked down at it in his hands. “Ridiculous and soft and cozy. Used to — to smell like you, too.”

Aziraphale’s hands were gentle on his.

“Doesn’t anymore,” Crowley mumbled.

“Perhaps I should borrow it for a bit.” Aziraphale took it from him, placing it on its usual hook. “In case I need to wear it a few times.”

Crowley gave the short answer now, too. “I love you.”

“Just for that? Goodness. Perhaps I should ask to borrow your jacket, too.”

Crowley laughed, not resisting when he felt soft hands pull at his jacket. Let Aziraphale help him out of it, then eased up behind him as he hung it neatly. “Bastard,” he mumbled against one plump shoulder. “Love you so much.”

“Hmm... and the sunglasses?”

Crowley pulled them off immediately, looping both his arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders. Holding the glasses in front of both of them. “Done. What else? Name it, it’s yours.”

Aziraphale took the glasses, slowly folding them up, tucking them into a pocket of the jacket. “You,” he said. “I think that’s all I want, honestly.”

Before Crowley could say anything — before he could catch his breath, process the sudden sunrise in his chest — Aziraphale pulled away from his nerveless arms. Turned back to him and gathered up both his hands.

“Let’s get settled in the back room, my love.” His eyes sparkled. “I’ll make tea.”

* * *

One of Warlock’s mates at school had suddenly turned allergic to her cat. Apparently there’d been a convoluted series of events after that, the upshot of which was that now the cat was Warlock’s. He mostly called it Cat.

“Didn’t it have a name, though?”

Warlock made a face. “Her name was _Princess_. I’m not calling her that.”

Crowley could see her over Skype, sitting on Warlock’s dresser in the background. Had to admit, she didn’t look impressed by her old name.

“I’ll find a good name for her sooner or later,” Warlock said. “We’re trying a bunch out meanwhile. Hey Molly,” he called back over his shoulder, voice raised. “Nope. She doesn’t like that one either.”

Crowley sat up straighter and grinned. “Maybe she’d like a little more attitude. Oi, Knuckles!”

No sign of movement from the cat. 

“Mangler!”

One ear flicked in what might have been annoyance.

Warlock was laughing. The view spun wildly as he flopped over on his bed, aiming his phone at the cat. “Killer? Skullcrusher? Hellbeast?”

Nothing. She yawned.

“Nope.” Warlock didn’t sound too concerned. “Maybe I’ll just call her Cat forever.” 

“Well, zero points for creativity, but at least half-marks for effort. Go far with that kind of work ethic, you will.”

The camera whirled back around to show Warlock’s face. “I like her. I never had a pet before except for that time you bought me Sea-Monkeys.”

“Thunderfang over there is a lot more responsibility than a bunch of miniature shrimp.” Crowley smiled against the little twinge in his chest. “But you’re a lot older, too. Probably ready for it.”

Warlock looked almost offended. “Dad _said_ I couldn’t keep her unless I took responsibility, and I already promised. _Course_ I’m ready for it.”

“Course. Ready for anything, you are. Except that test you still aren’t studying for.”

“So hang up and quit distracting me.”

Warlock grinned smugly as he said it, and Crowley faked a scowl. Aimed a pretend button-tap at the camera. “_Click_.”

* * *

It’d been cold for January, at or close to freezing most days. Crowley hated it, hated every bloody blast of icy wind, every draft late at night. Aziraphale mostly seemed not to mind — eternal ray of sunshine, he was, and he always bundled himself up anyway, had enough winter gear to outfit a small family — but apparently even he had his limits. 

When Crowley stopped by after the last gaming session of the month, he expected that they’d hang around the shop, or walk to one of a few nearby restaurants, or drive to one a bit farther off. 

He didn’t expect Aziraphale to meet him at the door with a desperate gleam in his eye. “I’m going to go absolutely mad if I do not get out of here, Crowley, and that is a fact. Do you _realize_ how long it has been since I have seen a tree?!”

The fit of cabin fever somehow landed them at Battersea Park. Crowley’d had a vague idea that they might visit the Children’s Zoo, but then neither of them had actually wanted to when they got there. They just wandered the park hand-in-hand, enjoying what sunlight there was.

Crowley was still thinking about the Yichen thing from a few days earlier. About how the kid had thanked them. Thanked them _both_, very clearly. As if Crowley had done anything.

“Because I didn’t, really.” He kicked at an imaginary stone on the pavement. “Was all you.”

Aziraphale glanced at him. “I thought you spoke with him, didn’t you? Gave him a bit of reassurance?”

“Mnh.” Crowley shrugged. “Some crappy advice. Nothing important.”

“It’s always important, dear heart. Every kind word is important.” They were almost to the bandstand now. Just idling along, not aiming for it, but they’d cross through it on their current path. Aziraphale moved closer, tugging on his arm in the way that meant an invitation to hold him, which was an invitation that Crowley took absolutely zero fucking seconds to accept.

“I can’t be with them, you know,” Aziraphale went on, “when I’m on the phone. I’m in the office, and they’re on the sofa by themselves. And... I have returned to find them crying, a few times.”

Crowley felt Aziraphale’s arm creep around his own waist, and he covered the pudgy hand with his own. “Oh.”

“You helped, Crowley.” They’d reached the bandstand, were just starting across it. Aziraphale stopped walking. “Yichen would have been quite alone with his thoughts if not for you.” Then, when Crowley started to protest: “Please, dearest. You were very important to him, I’m sure of it. He had a comfort none of the others ever did, because you were there with him.”

Aziraphale turned to face Crowley full-on, slipping from his arm to do so. He looked up at him with shining eyes. “You are very important to me, too. I’m not sure I tell you that enough.”

“It — it’s fine.” This wasn’t where he’d expected the conversation to go at all. He could feel tears lumping at the back of his throat, a horrible sense of _unfairness_ which only got worse when Aziraphale smiled gently at him. When he took Crowley’s hands and squeezed them softly. Crowley didn’t need comforting, didn’t — didn’t need _reassurance_, it was Aziraphale who — “You tell me plenty. You’re the one who does words, yeah?”

“Perhaps not the right words. Perhaps not the ones you truly need to hear.”

Crowley waited. He could listen to this, let Aziraphale say... whatever he apparently thought he needed to say. Then they could go back to normal. To Crowley helping Aziraphale realize how amazing he was, as long as Aziraphale would have him around.

He worked not to fidget while Aziraphale took a deep breath.

“I love you, Crowley. I love you in a way I did not expect to ever love again. I intend to go on loving you for a very, very long time.”

Crowley felt a whimpering sound escape his throat. A long time, sure, forever sounded about right, as long as they had together, as long as they lived...

“I choose you to rest within my heart.” Aziraphale stepped even closer, one hand fisting in Crowley’s collar, pulling him down, and Crowley’s breathing shattered as tender lips pressed against his forehead. “I will keep choosing you as long as you allow me to do so. For years, darling. For years and years and years.”

“But,” Crowley gritted out; and then it was too late, the thought was started, and he couldn’t seem to stop it. “But you won’t. Not forever. You’ll stop, you’ll leave, once you realize I’m just — me, just this broken _thing_, I’m —” He took off the sunglasses so he could wipe at his traitor eyes. Closed them tightly. “I’m not — not _good_ enough, angel. For anything.”

The soft hand dropped away from him.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, and his voice was so mournful that something snapped in Crowley’s chest.

“Oh, my Crowley, _no_.” Suddenly the hand was back, and not just a soft hand but soft arms, wrapping around his shoulders. Another invitation for Crowley to hold Aziraphale around the waist, which he did, and oh, how his angel fit perfectly. Aziraphale would always be exactly enough. 

Not like Crowley, who wasn’t even sure he knew _how_ to be enough.

“I worried you might think something like —” Aziraphale clung tightly to him. “My dearest. My treasure. Do you really think I would let you into my heart without knowing you? That I would let —”

He stopped almost mid-word. “A moment, please — I have to find —” He let go, drawing away, out of the circle of Crowley’s arms. Crowley’s mouth formed silent syllables as Aziraphale turned his back to dig something out of a pocket. It jingled for several seconds in his hands. Keys? His keyring?

Whatever it was went back into the pocket, although when Aziraphale turned around again, it was with one hand closed tightly by his side.

“I rather meant to plan this out, but it shan’t wait.” His voice wasn’t loud, but it was firm. Intent. His blue-gray eyes found Crowley’s and held them. “It was... oh, it was going to be romantic, wasn’t it? I’ve a table for us on the fourteenth, at Osteria Fusano. I know how much you love their ragu di cinghiale. And — and I thought, perhaps roses, they’re traditional, aren’t they, only I had no idea whether you’d want that, whether it wouldn’t be — uncomfortable. Because gentlemen give their young ladies roses, don’t they? That’s the usual thing.”

Crowley flinched.

“And you’re not a _young lady_.” The phrase tripped out of Aziraphale’s mouth like it appalled him, like he wasn’t even sure how it’d gotten there. “You are a man, _my_ man, and I am yours. We’re certainly different in enough ways, but we have that in common.”

“Angel,” Crowley choked out. He fought down the words that wanted to come next, the protests, the reasons why Aziraphale was wrong, why Crowley would never, ever be enough...

Aziraphale’s eyes shimmered. “I _know_ you. I know you very well by now, my dear, and it only makes me more sure. I love you. I choose to keep loving you.”

The shimmer broke. A tear wandered down Aziraphale’s cheek, then another when he blinked. “I choose you, Anthony Crowley, you and no one else, not now and I rather hope not ever.”

The hand that wasn’t clenched shut reached for Crowley, landing against his chest. Right over his heart. “I _do_,” Aziraphale whispered.

“...you do.” 

Crowley didn’t know why he wasn’t crying too. There was a pain in his chest, a hideous raw pulsing ache, the familiar hurt of only being him, and not anything better. Aziraphale’s hand over his heart couldn’t do anything to heal that.

But the hand made the hurt a little better. The idea of being chosen, over and over again, made it better.

Not much. But anything at all was a miracle.

Aziraphale smiled up at him, the motion freeing more tears, and Crowley took that beautiful face in his hands, wiping them away, gentle as his shaking fingers could manage. “Even if you can’t believe how important, how very good enough you are, just yet — I hope you’ll let me keep telling you. I want very much to keep telling you.”

_Of course I don’t believe you_, said that same old voice, _because — because I just don’t, all right, I —_

So hard to not just let it win, speak aloud and spill the words. He was fighting, but it was so _hard_. 

“I’m just — I’m on your side, Crowley.”

“_Our_ side,” he hissed, fingers still trembling against Aziraphale’s cheeks, his soft jaw. “Ours. Gonna keep telling you how important _you_ are, too. Long as you let me.”

“Ours. Yes.” Aziraphale closed his eyes and leaned into Crowley’s touch. “That’s it exactly.”

Crowley’s chest caved around a single ragged sob.

“So we’ll keep the reservation or not, as you like.” Aziraphale cupped one of his hands around Crowley’s, kissing the palm, before pulling it softly away. “I will buy you a thousand roses, or one in some overly-dramatic shade of red to match your sense of style, or none at all. But I won’t wait until Valentine’s Day to give you this.”

He raised the clenched hand and opened it.

“I actually had a copy made for you, and it’s on my desk right now. I’ll use it instead. This one is yours.”

A dented key shone dully in the shade of the bandstand.

Crowley looked at it, and thought he could feel a matching shine start up somewhere inside himself. “That’s. No.”

Aziraphale held it out to him. No pout, no imploring eyes. No head tucked down as he looked up through soft lashes, double chin creasing deep enough to bury Crowley’s heart in. His eyes still glimmered with tears, but they were steady. 

“You see. The shop is my home and my livelihood both, beloved, and it holds every material object I possess. And I know I can trust you with it.” He ignored the little noise Crowley made, kept gazing up at him with unwavering eyes. “I choose to let you in. I — I ask you to consider it home.” [[art]](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/190047763749/a-dented-key-shone-dully-in-the-shade-of-the)

A sudden thread of uncertainty wove through his voice. “If you are willing.”

Crowley stared at the key. It didn’t shine any brighter — it was still ancient and dented, scratched all to hell around the bow. But the light in his chest did. It would blind him, now, if he could actually see it. Still getting bigger. Hotter. Would probably burn him up any second.

He snatched the key while he still had a hand to take it with. It was cold and heavy on his palm. Real. _His_.

“You’re already my home,” his mouth said for him. “Don’t need another one.”

But he closed his hand around the key. Could already feel it warming against his skin. Not cold anymore. Still his.

Aziraphale’s eyes widened, mouth opening soundlessly. His cheeks went a color that definitely was not from just the cold. There was something Crowley could do about that expression, about the fact that Aziraphale’s lips were so soft and sweet, yet currently so bare. First, though, he had to haul out his own keys and attach this one. Right next to the key to his flat.

Then he wound himself around Aziraphale, pulling him close, leaning in closer. Lips softer and sweeter than anything else in the world found his, he didn’t even have to go looking for them, there they were; and for a while he didn’t know anything at all except the kiss, Aziraphale’s mouth warm and aching on his, body round and tender in his arms.

A minute or an hour or a year later, Aziraphale laughed, high and breathless against him. “Oh. I don’t have a key now. You’ll have to let me into the shop, when we get —”

Crowley filled the silence with the only word that would fit. “Home.”

Aziraphale grabbed him tight, then, enough to knock the breath out of him. Pushed his perfect curly head into Crowley’s chest and nodded against him. Didn’t say anything more.

Didn’t have to. Crowley knew.

In the slow twilight under the bandstand roof, Crowley gathered his angel to him, every single beautiful inch that he could reach. He nestled his cheek against the golden hair, letting his eyes drift closed. Aziraphale shook a little, at first, but Crowley rubbed his back slowly, and after a while he stopped.

_I want to marry you_, Crowley thought very clearly. _I want to believe I’m enough to be willing to ask._

_Want to believe I’m worth you saying yes._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone. Are you doing well? I love you all bunches. <3
> 
> If you missed the link to the art for today's chapter, [here it is again](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/190047763749/a-dented-key-shone-dully-in-the-shade-of-the).
> 
> I've been saying for ages that there wouldn't be a bandstand scene, but then I realized that, oh, yes there will be (and here it is). There just won't be a _breakup_ scene. I also did something I thought was kind of clever here; dunno if it's actually clever or not, but either way, you might like to review the bit of chapter 4 after the horizontal divider (technically starting a few paragraphs after the divider).
> 
> And a fun note: I am fictionalizing a restaurant in the city where I live, Osteria Papavero. Papavero is Italian for poppy, so I decided to pick a different plant name, and I did some poking around in a Victorian-or-possibly-Edwardian-era floriography book that's up on Project Gutenberg, looking for inspiration. Finally I looked up something called the spindle tree, which [apparently](https://botanical.com/botanical/mgmh/s/spindl82.html) is "fusano" in Italian. Another name for this plant? [The "wahoo".](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Euonymus) I couldn't resist.
> 
> (According to my Project Gutenberg source, the spindle tree's meaning is ["your charms are engraven on my heart"](http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/31591). Sounds pretty intense.)


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley's life progresses on a number of fronts, as winter drags toward its end and Valentine's Day arrives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter-specific warning notes:**
> 
>   * Brief instance of what could be considered any or all of homophobia, biphobia or transphobia
>   * Gender dysphoria
> 
> (Housekeeping note: still about a week behind on comment replies!)

Crowley’s phone rang. His mum. She hadn’t called at Christmas, probably because she hadn’t needed a captive ear enough to bother, but now it was almost February and she’d have a whole ‘nother month of unloading to do.

It occurred to him, with quiet lack of fanfare, that he could just... ask for what he wanted.

He picked up, said hello. Listened for her greeting, and it was the wrong name, of _course_ it was the wrong name, but for the first time in probably three years he didn’t just let it go.

“That isn’t my name,” he said. “Hasn’t been for over a decade. I need for you to call me ‘Anthony’ now.”

His mum tsked. “Now, you know I named you after your poor dear great-grandmother...”

“But it’s not my name anymore. I’m not your _daughter_ anymore, if I ever was. It’s important to me that you respect that.”

Sure. Using his words. The same kind of stuff Lara was always saying during their sessions, and it felt weirdly good now. Powerful.

An irritated noise came down the line. “I don’t understand _any_ of this. You were perfectly normal, and then all this nonsense about being a lesbian, and then you started thinking you were a boy —”

Crowley gritted his teeth. “Mum,” he said midway through, and then kept repeating it until she finally stopped to let him talk. “Do you want me to explain it so you will understand? I’d really like to. Only if you want to understand, though. Just need to know whether you do.”

His eyes narrowed as he listened to the response.

“Okay. I’m sorry you feel that way, mum. I don’t think I want to talk to you again while you do.”

This time her reaction was even less complimentary. Crowley let her go until she was done.

“Okay. Please don’t call back again. Don’t think it would be good for either of us, and I — I won’t be picking up. Goodbye.”

He hung up.

The room was silent for a few moments.

Crowley laughed, just a quick, surprised sound. He’d have to tell Lara about this.

* * *

Sessions with Lara were going better again now. His plants were getting yelled at plenty, sure (all except the pretty little clover plant, because that was a gift from his pretty little angel, and anyway it was growing so beautifully that it didn’t need so much as a scolding anyway); but at least the stupid stuff she asked him to try was less stupid again. Sometimes it even helped.

“Because the rules aren’t different for them.” He’d sulked the words out practically first thing the last time he’d seen her, almost before “hello”. “That’s the big secret you wanted me to figure out last time, right? If someone else was thinking like — like me.” He’d glared at her through the sunglasses. “If we’ve known each other the same amount of time, and they still figure I’m worth forgiving f-for all my, my fuck-ups, then they’re worth forgiving too.”

Lara had responded by nodding. Face welcoming but neutral, inviting more if he had it, but not judging. Bloody irritating.

“And. And maybe they’d say no, it’s different, they’re — they’re not proper human. That they’re something. Less.” Slouching all over the place had felt wrong, suddenly. So many limbs, all so far away. He sat up, pulling a knee against his chest and hugging it. Better. “But. Doesn’t matter if they’re human or, or not-human or a, a fucking _aardvark_. They’ve got enough brain awareness wotsit to be a person, so they’re the same. We’re the same.”

Another nod. “That’s what you would tell them?”

Crowley’d mumbled.

“Well, I think you’re right, for what that might matter. There aren’t special rules for anyone just based on who they are. So ideally your friend would be able to extend the same forgiveness to themselves that they would to anyone else.”

That’d earned her a glare that should have melted the sunglasses. “See what you’re doing there, for the record. Not _nearly_ so clever as you think you are.”

* * *

He woke in the middle of the night, once, Aziraphale a round lump under most of the covers. Stepped across the hall while he was up. The light in Aziraphale's bathroom came from a bunch of fancy natural-spectrum bulbs, so it was bright without giving everything that antiseptic glare. It let him see himself very clearly in the mirror as he washed and dried his hands.

Bits of silver maybe glinted in the red of his hair. Wouldn’t be a big deal if so. Way his life’d been sometimes, he was a little surprised it hadn’t all gone white decades ago. He wasn’t losing it, at least. There’d been an ill-advised head-shaving at one point in his life, and the results were not something he wanted to repeat.

His eyes were the same as they’d ever looked, soft and long-lashed. T[1] had changed a lot, but not that. The same person had always looked back at him out of those eyes, and he’d always figured it was her, his ghost, staring out from the past. No matter what else changed — voice dropping, beard starting — she was still there. Drive the Bentley to the ends of the Earth and she’d just be there when he arrived.

Maybe it worked the other way, though. Maybe it’d been him, now, looking back into the past. _Hey kiddo. Hang in there. I’m just the you that’s not here yet._

His bony chin was shadowed with stubble. Crowley men grew their beards slow; that was info he’d picked up from his dad early on, not actually knowing why he’d bothered to remember it. Maybe a sign he could’ve recognized. Maybe not. But slow or not, he’d probably need to have a go with the razor in the morning.

Narrow shoulders underneath his t-shirt. Skinny arms, skinny chest; nothing much to him at all, really, just a bit of flesh and scrappy muscle over his bones. Nothing really notable, except...

Crowley rubbed a hand over his chest.

It was cold out here. Warm under the covers, if he could steal them back from Aziraphale. Or if Crowley was willing he could wake him up, apologize with a kiss, get them both all tucked in again together. They would be snug and cozy then. Aziraphale would almost certainly want to be the little spoon again, and Crowley would be more than glad to hold his pretty belly, and they would drift peacefully off together, all the walls between them crumbling at last.

Well. Most. Crowley still had one last wall, and it marched across his chest like a heap of mangled stone.

If Aziraphale saw it —

Crowley moved before he could lose his nerve, lifting his shirt up to just under his throat. Looked at his own scars for a minute, just _looked_, and didn’t wince like he wanted to. Didn’t sneer like he normally might.

The sight didn’t kill him. He pulled down the shirt at last, smoothing it over his flat middle. Done. Still alive. That shouldn’t have been as reassuring as it was.

He went back to bed. Shook Aziraphale gently awake, receiving a sleepy grumble in response. “You stole the covers, angel.”

“Must be mistaken ‘f I’m ‘n angel,” Aziraphale mumbled. “We obv’sly don’t _steal_.”

Crowley smoothed back his hair. “Well, you’re a very naughty angel, apparently, because I’m cold over here.”

“Mmnot.” But Aziraphale moved when Crowley coaxed him, freeing up enough of the quilts that they could both share them again.

Crowley curled up beside him, hand resting on his soft shoulder. Kissed the back of his neck. “Gnight. Love you.”

“Mmm. Hand.”

“Should I move it?” Crowley lifted it from his shoulder, started to wriggle away. “Sorry, I didn’t —”

“Stomach.”

Crowley made a vague noise.

“Want your hand on my stomach,” Aziraphale repeated, a little more clearly. “Feels safe. Feels as though I’m... not too big. As though I fit.”

It was only a little bit painful to swallow back the lump that had manifested in his throat. “Promise you fit. Promise I will always have all the room you need.” He moved closer again, hand caressing the soft rise of belly, finding the perfect place to rest. “And I promise I’ll always keep you safe.”

He got a little hum in response to that. Aziraphale breathed in, deep, then let everything out in a rush.

“Thank you, lovely.”

“Don’t need to thank me.” Crowley drew his fingers in circles on Aziraphale’s shirt, and felt something ease in the round body. “‘S pure selfishness.”

Aziraphale said something in response. He was falling back asleep, though, so it came out muddled. Crowley kept rubbing his belly for a little while longer.

When he slept, he dreamed of stone walls crumbling. He thought there was a monster behind them, one he needed to protect Aziraphale from, but they’d been there so long that he could no longer remember for sure. All he could do was try to be ready when the walls finally fell.

* * *

In the end, they kept Aziraphale’s dinner reservation for the fourteenth and canceled Crowley’s.

Crowley let himself into the shop that day with his own precious key, juggling flowers and chocolates and his overnight bag. The bag he let thud to the ground inside the door; the rest made it onto the counter by the register just as Aziraphale joined him from wherever he’d been rattling around.

“Hi,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale slid pudgy fingers along Crowley’s cheeks, head tilting up as Crowley leaned down, warm mouth finding his and kissing him with brain-melting gentleness. 

“Ghnk,” Crowley added.

“Hello, my only.” Aziraphale kissed him again, like he hadn’t quite finished with the first one. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

“Happy any day when I’m with you," Crowley’s mouth answered for him while he was still getting himself back together. That earned him another kiss, though, which started the process all over again.

“Here,” he wheezed, pushing the vase of flowers a little closer to Aziraphale. “They’re — uh —”

Aziraphale touched delicate fingers to one of the blooms, then another. His head tilted to the side. His eyes were very thoughtful, which made sense, because Crowley had kind of gone off the rails here. Had canceled his order for red roses, and made a new one for white and cream and blue. Tied off with a wide gold ribbon. Not tartan, but not for lack of trying, God help him. The florist just hadn’t had any Aziraphale-looking tartan in stock.

Once he’d gotten the thing he’d realized how much it looked like a goddamn wedding bouquet. Not that that was a bad association, but...

“Well. They’re you.” He somehow restrained himself enough to only jam one hand into a pocket. “Everyone does red, that’s standard, but you’re _not_ standard, right? Different from everyone else. Wouldn’t love you if you weren’t. So...”

He gestured vaguely with the unpocketed hand. “Not as pretty as you. But, but hopefully they’re okay.”

Aziraphale looked up at him, eyes gleaming wetly, and for a hideous half-second Crowley was sure he’d made the worst mistake of his life. Then the smile came out again, full-force. Practically knocked him back against the wall.

“They’re exquisite. They’re absolutely —” Aziraphale touched another petal, lingering over it. “Oh, Crowley. They’re simply perfect.”

“Yeah. Zactly.”

The tiniest blush dusted itself across Aziraphale’s cheeks.

“And, and of course I got you these.” Now Crowley moved the chocolates closer. “I mean, _they’re_ standard, too, but... but you like chocolate.” He mumbled at the ground for a second until he could find the rest of the words. “Makes you happy.”

Aziraphale looked at the candy, too, straightening the extremely fancy-looking box on the counter with quiet fingers.

“‘N that makes _me_ happy.”

Aziraphale nodded.

“So, I — ”

Sudden armful of angel. Crowley staggered backward three full steps before he caught himself, before he caught all of Aziraphale, holding him close. Wishing he could pull him into his heart and keep him there forever.

“You darling man," said a muffled voice against his chest. “I’m quite sure I don’t deserve you.”

“Wh — hey. No.” Crowley rubbed Aziraphale’s back. “‘S not about deserving. It — look, you say you chose me, yeah?”

Aziraphale’s fingers tightened in his shirt. “Always.”

Now it was Crowley’s heart staggering back, although it caught itself after one. “Gh. Me too.” He lifted one hand to comb through the soft fluff of Aziraphale’s hair. “Know you pretty well by now, angel. Know all the parts of you you maybe don’t love so much. Love ’em all.”

Lara was giving him a meaningful look from inside his brain. _Look, later, okay,_ he told her.

“Choose you too. Not something you — you have to deserve any more than.” He grimaced. “Than I do. Just is. Cause I say so.”

When Aziraphale lifted his head again, there were tears shimmering in his eyes, but none on his pretty cheeks. “Thank you.”

“Hope you’re just thanking me for the presents.” Crowley kissed him on the forehead. “Shouldn’t thank me for loving you. Do that whether anyone says you ‘deserve’ it or not.”

Aziraphale’s forehead definitely needed to be kissed again. There. Sorted.

“We’re not gonna be late to dinner, right?”

“I... gave us a bit of buffer time with the reservation.” Aziraphale glanced sideways, maybe seeing something very interesting over by the shelves. “Just in case there was some manner of... distraction.”

Crowley’s fingers wound dreamily through Aziraphale’s hair. “Oh yeah? What, uh. What sort of distraction were you anticipating?”

Aziraphale ran a hand along the side of Crowley’s jaw, guiding him down towards sweetly smiling lips.

Not distracting at all, that. Kept him very focused on his priorities.

* * *

Osteria Fusano was one of the few really good restaurants that Crowley had been able to introduce Aziraphale to — he’d been there before with Anathema and Liz. The place billed itself as “rustic Italian”, less of the spaghetti-with-marinara and more shellfish and meat stews. Still pasta, though. Crowley was feeling pretty tempted by the gramigna Bolognese.

“I’m a bit surprised, actually. You always order the cinghiale here.”

“Yeah, but this is so, so, _mysterious_.” Crowley leaned back casually. “Got it right there in the name, doesn’t it? ‘Enigma Bolognese’?”

For several long moments, Aziraphale just looked at him. There was a tiny movement of lips, of the curve of cheek below one eye, but that was it. Otherwise he showed nothing but stoic judgement.

“I love you,” Crowley added helpfully.

“And yet you do these things to me.” Aziraphale’s lips twitched a little more noticeably this time. “All the many ways you could choose to express yourself, and this is the one you pick...”

Crowley moved his hand to where Aziraphale’s rested on the table. Lifted it, soft and round and perfect, and brought it to his lips. Left one lingering kiss against the back of it.

“Better?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said. Smiling, now, sweet and gentle. “I love you too, my treasure. But I’m still not sure I’m going to forgive you.”

Crowley grinned down at the menu. “Cruel, angel. Very cruel. Order something else then, maybe. Could try the donkey spit dumplings.”

“The what?!”

He grinned a little sharper. Tapped Aziraphale’s menu, right under the “Pasta” heading.

“‘Canederli con burro e salvia’... _Crowley_, that is _butter and sage_!”

Crowley laughed, good and hard and delighted.

“You’re impossible,” Aziraphale said, but he was laughing too. “Simply the most incorrigible man I have ever had the misfortune of meeting, and I don’t know _what_ I’m going to do with you now.”

_Marry me_, Crowley didn’t say. _That’s one thing you could do. Just as a suggestion._

Out loud he stuck to “Dunno. But you’re clever. Sure you’ll think of something.”

Blue eyes crinkled at him. “Just choose something to eat, darling. You can torment me with terrible wordplay after we’ve ordered.”

Crowley settled on the Bolognese, very carefully calling it by the right name, just once, when actually ordering it; but with full intentions of calling it Enigma Noodles for the rest of the night. Aziraphale picked some kind of fancy pasta with venison. Salmon croquettes to share. And a bottle of good red wine, of course. Crowley could tell a Château Moot Whatever from... at least some of the other châteaus, by this point, but the wine wasn’t really the important part. Sharing a bottle of anything with Aziraphale had very quickly become one of Crowley’s favorite activities.

He smiled, now, remembering the very first time they’d spent an evening like that. Way back in October. They’d still been both mooning obliviously over each other, and when Crowley had realized how giggly Aziraphale got after a few glasses... how blushingly gorgeous...

“Goodness, Crowley, you’re _staring_ at me.” He was blushing now, just a little bit. And gorgeous too. Lot bit of that.

“Sure about that? Could be looking any ol’ way.” He tapped the rim of his sunglasses. “I’m as mysterious as the Bolognese.”

Aziraphale’s blush deepened. “You’re actually rather obvious, I’m afraid.” He ducked his head. “It’s the way you smile. You always smile at me like that.”

Crowley almost asked what way he was talking about. He’d just been thinking about Aziraphale, that was all, about how precious he was, and how beautiful, and how much Crowley lo...

Oh. Of course. That kind of smile.

He let it beam out even wider, unrestrained and unashamed and so full of love that it was a wonder he wasn’t gushing it out his ears. “Guess I am staring. Want me to stop?”

“Not yet, but when the wine comes, I suppose.” Aziraphale unfolded his napkin, arranging it primly in his lap. “If you don’t watch what you’re doing then, you’re liable to make a _terrible_ mess.”

Then he met Crowley’s eyes again, keeping a coolly straight face for about one second before melting back into a soft smile.

“God, you’re adorable when you flirt.” Crowley propped his chin in his hands. “Do it more often and you’d probably murder me.”

Aziraphale turned a color of pink that Crowley hadn’t seen from him in a while. Crowley was still laughing (and Aziraphale was losing the battle to not join him) when the wine and croquettes arrived.

Crowley poured, started to hand a glass across the table, then held onto it for a moment longer. “You know, uh.” He cleared his throat. “We’re just about a year since I started working at the cafe. Since we met, technically.”

“Not much of a meeting.” Aziraphale’s hand was soft on his, though. His thumb brushed lightly over Crowley’s fingers. “We hardly spoke for months.”

“Yeah, I mean, I didn’t even think of you as anything but ‘bookshop guy’ for ages...”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow.

“...but! I mean..." Crowley shrugged. “Year ago I didn’t even know you. And now we. Well. It’s just... it’s loads better now.”

He released the glass, letting Aziraphale take it. “So I wanted to drink to. To more years like that.”

“Oh, yes.” Aziraphale’s chin maybe trembled just a little. “To more years.”

Their glasses knocked together gently. Crowley couldn’t look at Aziraphale, as they drank, because Aziraphale was looking back at _him_, and the sheer tenderness of his expression was fucking soul-destroying.

He could grab Aziraphale’s other hand on the table, though. Grab it, and squeeze it tight as he looked away to something less sublime.

“Salmon things,” he said. “Should have one. You like the salmon things.”

He snuck a glance. Aziraphale was still watching him tenderly; his chest heaved a breath, and his mouth opened, just a little. Like he was about to say something. Maybe he realized that Crowley was about one romantic statement from death, though, or maybe he changed his mind for some other reason. He let the breath out, and whatever he might’ve been going to say was swapped for “I do, yes. But make sure to have some yourself, as well.”

Crowley obediently shoveled a couple onto his plate. He left most of them for Aziraphale, though. They were good, but watching Aziraphale eat them was better. Knowing he was enjoying himself — seeing that little closed-eye smile of pleasure, hearing that throaty hum of delight — was much, much better.

Aziraphale took his first delicate bite, and Crowley felt something in his chest loosen as soon as he heard the hum.

“Happy, angel?”

The world’s prettiest pair of hazel eyes looked at him, and him, and only him. “I am," said Aziraphale. “I truly, truly am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Short for testosterone, i.e. hormone replacement therapy for a transmasculine individual. [return to text]


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spring arrives, bringing ever more pleasant domesticity at the bookshop, ever more gaming-group shenanigans, and an unexpected visitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter-specific warning notes:**
> 
>   * Mention of bi- and/or enbyphobia
>   * Reference to conversion therapy but ain’t nobody getting sent to conversion therapy around here I promise
> 
> (Housekeeping note: still behind on comment replies. There have been Things which have made it Very Hard for me to get to them. Hoping that will change in the next few days.)

Spring approached slowly enough to make glaciers tap their feet.

Most of the servers at work got their hours cut when the restaurant got sold off to some investment firm, and a couple were let go entirely. Crowley and one other guy were left miraculously untouched. His old manager had left just after the start of the year, replaced by a very enthusiastic new one who was doing a lot of talking to him about _leadership_ and _cross-training_ and _career pathing_. Bunch of buzzwords that really meant he was being groomed for some kind of promotion.

Really, unless he was about a billion light-years off on his read of the situation, there was probably a real opportunity in front of him here. He was good at this job, somehow, and he could lean into that, take the training and the pathing and the whatever else management wanted to throw at him. Make an actual career out of being a server. Someday work his way up to employment at one of those restaurants where the staff cleared more in a day than he could make at Red Red in a week.

He didn’t want that, though. Didn’t know that he wanted to be a career _anything_ he’d ever tried his hand at. He was still really only doing this thing for the money, still planned to move on sooner or later. Maybe go back to barista-ing. He actually missed the Clover Cafe sometimes. Not that it’d been all easy work, but the hard bits hadn’t been nearly so annoying, and he didn’t have to smile nicely for the espresso machine.

For now he’d keep doing what he was doing. Show up when he was supposed to, do the work; do what he could to help share the burden with his remaining coworkers, now that they were always short-staffed. Keep earning the paychecks. Couldn’t expect Aziraphale to buy _all_ his own dinners, after all.

* * *

“Absolutely not.” Aziraphale dropped a pile of books by the register with a thud. “I won’t be telling you, and that’s simply final.”

“Aww, but angel —”

“And don’t you try to ‘but angel’ me.”

Crowley sat on the stool behind the counter, rifling through one of the books as Aziraphale disappeared back around a shelf. “But pretty angel?” he tried. Silence. “But prettiest of little angels, who I love a whole lot?”

“‘Whom’,” Aziraphale said, appearing suddenly behind him. “And your flattery won’t work on me.” Another few books dropped off. “You’ll just have to wait to find out.”

“Not flattery,” Crowley muttered. “‘S truth. Try to find me a prettier angel. I’ll wait.”

Aziraphale doubled back long enough to smooth his fingers through Crowley’s hair. “You’re very sweet, but I’m still not telling you.”

“Wh — you can’t drop hints about birthday presents weeks beforehand and, and then go mum!”

Aziraphale grinned at him before disappearing again.

Crowley groaned into his book. When he heard Aziraphale’s voice from a few rows over, wordlessly singing along to the record player in the corner, he almost hopped up to find him and kiss him into maybe giving another hint. By this point he even knew his way around the maze, so he wouldn’t get lost amongst the stacks like some kind of newbie browser.

He decided to wait for the angel to come to him, though. Round the corner of yet another shelf, carrying yet more books, and as soon as they were on the counter, Crowley was on his feet, waiting with arms out.

“Hmm.” Aziraphale eyed him with another little grin. “I do hope this isn’t some plan to tempt me into revealing your gift.”

“Might be. Can think of one way to find out.”

Aziraphale’s eyes twinkled. “Oh, let’s do keep a little bit of mystery in our lives, shall we?” And he was off again, heavy footsteps pacing between the rows and out of sight.

“You’re a bastard, Aziraphale,” Crowley called after him.

“I love you too, darling” floated back in response.

Last night he’d slept over again. Really, these days he slept over more often than not — three nights running, a couple of times. The shop wasn’t much farther from work than his and An’s and Liz’s flat. He had a toothbrush in the bathroom, and a chair at the kitchen table which was pretty much officially his now.

This morning, Aziraphale was doing some kind of inventory thing before he opened, and Crowley had just been sitting at the counter watching. Enjoying how it felt to just be there, a part of Aziraphale’s life. Go to sleep with him, wake up with him, eat breakfast with him, be forbidden from trying to help with chores because he’d only get underfoot — didn’t get much more domestic than that.

Aziraphale came out again clutching a few more volumes. “There! That’s the last of them.”

“So this is, uh...” Crowley said, looking at the thirty or so books piled on the counter.

“Spring cleaning.”

“Right, right. Out of all the many books in your shop, you take these select few...”

Aziraphale sidled closer, and when he tugged gently on Crowley’s hand, Crowley slid it around his pretty waist and gave the side of his belly a squeeze. 

“Ones I’ve no use for, yes. And I’m sure they’ll never sell.”

“...and you... trade them with one of your book friends. For ones they can’t sell either.”

“Well, yes.”

Crowley stroked his fingers down Aziraphale’s side. “You’re all a bunch of book hoarders enabling each other. And I’m just letting it happen.” He heaved an exaggerated sigh. “‘S my life now, I spose.”

“Poor dear. How will you handle such a terrible blow?”

“There’s upsides. Get to hang out with you, after all. Pretty big plus there.” He turned, getting both his arms around Aziraphale, closing his eyes as his chin settled on one shoulder. “Almost makes up for the secret-keeping, even.”

Aziraphale leaned his head against Crowley’s. “You will find out what your gift is in precisely sixteen days, Crowley. And that is that.”

Crowley pulled away from him immediately, crossing his arms and trying on what he hoped was a very severe scowl. All that got him was a giggle, though, and a round hand weighing down his shoulder as Aziraphale hopped up to kiss him on the nose. Suggested he’d probably missed the mark.

It was all ridiculously simple and easy and beautiful. He kept catching himself thinking that maybe he _could_ trust it, a little bit, possibly. Which usually made him feel faintly panicked for a while afterwards, him tempting the universe to smite him like that and all.

“You’re usually such an _infuriating_ man.” Aziraphale’s gorgeous face beamed up at him, sparkling eyes and double chin and those perfectly soft pink lips. “Turning the tables on you like this is an absolute delight.”

Crowley turned the attempted scowl up another notch.

“So handsome,” Aziraphale chuckled, “no wonder I love you so.”

“Gnuh.”

Plump fingers brushed the hair back from his forehead. “And so kind, too. So clever, more than you give yourself credit for, I think.”

“‘M not —”

“I love how deeply you care for the things that are close to your heart. Your stars, your plants. The Bentley — you worked so hard to earn her, dearest.” The fingers trailed down as Aziraphale spoke, brushing against Crowley’s temple, caressing his cheek. “I love the fact that there is still room in your life for a child four thousand miles away, who hasn’t been your responsibility in years.”

“D-dammit.” Crowley stared at the pile of books on the counter, refusing to uncross his arms or admit that his face was currently on fire. “Thought we were, were having fun, and now you’re being all... this.”

Aziraphale uttered a smug little _hmm_ sound. “Do you want me to not tell you how important to me you are, then?”

“‘Sfine,” he said to the books. “Y. You can tell.”

“You are wonderfully, _terribly_ important to me.” Aziraphale coaxed his head up, cradling it between gentle palms. “More than anything. No, don’t give me that look, you _did_ bring this on yourself. I’m afraid you’ll just have to accept it now.”

Crowley’s arms, obviously, had a mind of their own. He’d tried to resist, but at some point they’d snuck around Aziraphale without his permission, filling themselves up, holding with almost casual tenderness. “Utter bastard,” he grumbled happily. 

* * *

This time, it actually wasn’t Crowley who ruined everything.

“Look, do we have any uhh. Silver? They’re vulnerable to silver, right?”

“That’s werewolves,” Aksha said. “And vampires, I think, but not liches.”

“Not liches,” Crowley confirmed.

“Then not silver.” Ty rubbed absently at his hair. “Garlic?”

“Vampires again.”

Ty groaned. “Why are we even battling an archlich at this level?!”

“Because _someone_ had to go exploring while we were supposed to be sneaking into the castle, despite Eric very clearly noting that we should extra not split the party. _Ty_.” Nattie was scribbling calculations on the back of her character sheet again. “Don’t you —” She grabbed his sheet, read it, then tossed it back at him. “You _have_ Detect Curse! Why didn’t you use it?!”

“I didn’t think the Dread Pirate Westlin would curse his own stuff!”

“Still not a pirate,” Eric said, a little more weary this time.

Aksha propped a humorless grin on one fist. “You know, Eric, you don’t have to use the random effect tables every time. You could have just decided that this once the curse would summon something level-appropriate.”

“GM the next campaign if you want different rules.” Eric rearranged something behind their screen. “I use the tables.”

“Holy water! They’re vulnerable to holy water, yeah?”

Nattie looked up with a sudden glint in her eye. “Does anyone have any?”

The silence was enough of an answer for her to lose the glint. She went back to working out their chances of survival.

“Cell’Ar D’Oor, why, _why_ did you have to be so distracted by your namesake...”

“Because his player’s a numpty,” Aksha said. The humor was back in her smile, though, and when Ty gave her a one-fingered salute, it was with a smile of his own.

Nattie dropped her pencil. “Some of us maybe survive long enough to knock this thing down to bloodied,” she announced. “Maybe.”

They all considered that for a moment.

“Well, whatever. Roll initiative, yeah?” Crowley took out his lucky Roll Better die. “If you’ve got to go, then go with style.”

* * *

After the early TPK[1] (“Next week it’ll have been all a dream the night before you break into the castle, but today you’re all dead. Go home.”), Crowley went straight to the shop. Aziraphale wasn’t expecting him for a couple hours yet, but past experiences indicated that an early arrival would be very enthusiastically welcomed.

Except Aziraphale wasn’t there. The shop was locked, a lengthy “gone out, back in a few hours” note on the door, and there was someone waiting against the doorframe.

They were dressed in mostly black, carrying a bag, wearing sunglasses. For a weird half-second Crowley wondered who’d cloned him. Black hair, though, and dark olive skin. Short and pudgy. Somewhere around twenty, maybe. A customer? He couldn’t let them in, he’d have to turn them away till Aziraphale got back...

“Um. Are you Mr Fell?”

The voice was rough, tired in a way that he wished wasn’t so familiar. Crowley saw the pins on the collar now, bi pride and “ne/nem/nir”. Saw the quiver in nir lip.

Maybe not a customer.

“I’m his boyfriend.” He stopped a few feet away. Hands in his pockets, right one curled around his keys. “You, uh, waiting for...?”

Nir mouth quivered harder. “I heard you guys can help me.”

Not a customer.

“I’m not from around here, I took the tube over, but I’ve got friends and they’ve got friends and they said if I needed — if things ever got —”

Ne stopped. Swallowed. “They said you guys could help.”

There it was again. Not “he” or “Mr Fell” but _you guys_. Yichen had been spreading the word, maybe. Or one of the others who’d seen Crowley at the shop during their times of trouble, even if he hadn’t really talked to them while Aziraphale had made his calls.

The latest scared queer kid had shown up at the door, and with no other alternative ne was putting nir trust in Crowley, in nobody else but useless Crowley. Except maybe not so useless. He could help nem, couldn’t he? He knew where Aziraphale kept his contact list for times like this. An entire queer support network, built up over years and decades, all maintained in a scrupulously neat hand.

Easy enough to use, if someone scared and hurting and alone were to visit.

“Yeah.” Crowley pulled out his keys, opened the door. “Definitely. Come on in. Name’s Crowley, by the way.”

Ne smiled weakly. “I know. I’m Vega.”

Right. _They said you guys could help._ Of course both their names would get passed along. “C’mon, got a place you can sit down back here. You, uh, you want tea? Cocoa?”

Vega stared around nemself as they walked, and about ten steps in ne actually stopped entirely. “Holy shit, this place is a museum.”

“Hah. Kind of is, yeah.”

Ne started following him again. “And... could I have some tea?”

He walked nem into the back room, letting nem take the couch. Aziraphale would be fussing over nem at this point, offering blankets, patting hands and smiling kindly. All that angelic stuff. Crowley was hardly an angel, but he could do his best. 

“So,” he said, working in the little kitchen corner. “You wanna talk about it?”

He watched from behind his own sunglasses as Vega took nirs off. Rubbed nir eyes and sighed.

“My parents,” ne said. “I have to get away while I still can. They — they keep talking about sending me somewhere. And about therapy to fix me, but I’m not broken, you know?”

“I know.” Crowley frowned at the kettle, and when the words came to mind, he said them without hesitating. “Not broken any more’n I am.”

“And I don’t have anywhere to go, but if I stay they might...”

Ne buried nir face in nir hands.

“Hey. Hey, you’ve got somewhere to go. Came here, didn’t you?”

He dropped in the tea bag, then walked the mug over to nem. Handed it to nem just like Aziraphale had done who knew how many times before. Repeated the same thing he’d heard multiple times now, and why not when it was true? “Did exactly right, coming here.” He paused. “Although I maybe should’ve let that cool down a bit, huh? Watch you don’t burn yourself. Be a bad start, that.”

Vega smiled. Just a little, but Crowley would take it.

“Nobody’s gonna send you anywhere without your permission. Sound good?”

“Y-yeah.” Ne rubbed nir eyes again.

“Gonna be okay while I make some calls?”

“Yeah.”

“K.”

He hesitated on his way out the door. Vega was dunking nir tea bag up and down, looking... scared, yeah, but not panicked. Not like ne was about to burst into tears or anything.

Ne’d come here because ne’d been told it was a safe place. Passed down the line by friends of friends, some fucking legend of a bookshop with two blokes inside who could get someone out of a jam, find someone a place to stay. God knew how long Vega’d been waiting out there, and ne hadn’t even gotten Aziraphale in the end — not the one of them who actually did anything useful here. But ne’d asked Crowley for help anyway.

Him. Just Crowley, the one who wasn’t ever enough. But he _could_ be. This total stranger, this scared lost fucking _kid_, trusted him, and who was he to refuse that trust?

Make some calls. Yeah. He could do that.

He went into the office, pulling down Aziraphale’s notebook of contacts. Paged through it for a minute to read the notes. 

He picked up the old-fashioned desk phone and plugged in a number.

“Hi. Yeah, I’m calling from A.Z. Fell’s...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Short for Total Party Kill, a term from tabletop gaming (and probably other types of gaming as well) where all of the players die in an encounter. It's frequently a sign either that one or more players did something very, very foolish, or that the GM did not calibrate the encounter correctly to the players' levels.[return to text]


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Crowley's birthday, and Aziraphale has a surprise for him. The conversation kind of goes off the rails a couple of times before he can get to it, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter-specific warning notes:** Brief reference to gender dysphoria.
> 
> (Housekeeping note: still behind on comment replies. There have been Things which have made it Very Hard for me to get to them. Hoping that will change in the next few days.)

Every once in a while, Crowley went for a drive.

The Bentley was a gorgeous machine, and she still hummed under his hands same as ever. She flew down empty roads like the dream he’d held in his heart for years. Driving her felt _right_, felt like he’d found a place to belong, and that place was behind a wheel on a country road going fast enough to leave everything behind. No regrets, buying her from Dowling. No gap between the dream and the reality.

He just... didn’t need the dream like he used to.

Working for the Dowlings, he’d found excuses to go driving somewhere at least twice a week. He’d figured he’d be out there with the accelerator floored daily if he could get away with it. But here he was, using her to get around the city, sure, but actually getting out for long drives maybe three times in a month. Maybe not even that. Not pushing her that hard even when he did get out.

He felt right behind her wheel. Felt like himself, like _Crowley_, no ghosts of other names or faces at his heels.

He didn’t always have to get behind her wheel to have that, though. That was the thing. He’d be working, and realize he’d felt like an actual human for hours. He’d be talking old times with An and Liz, with no ghost in dress and pigtails on the sofa beside him. He’d chat with Warlock and come away missing him but otherwise mostly fine.

He’d be with Aziraphale, and just feel like himself. That was all. Just Crowley, just some aging leather-jacketed cool guy with a very uncool gaming hobby and an even less cool habit of dying of feels around his gorgeous fat angel boyfriend. That guy, all the way down.

The Bentley was still fucking magic, and taking her for a spin still aired out the dark spaces in his chest and left him whole and vital. Just didn’t seem to get as much darkness collecting some days.

Which was... okay. Was nice, while it lasted.

* * *

Liz and An both got into the backseat without any discussion, because they were going to pick up Aziraphale before heading to Crowley’s birthday dinner, and obviously Aziraphale was riding up front with Crowley.

Steakhouse tonight. Upscale enough for a collared-shirt no-jeans dress code, but Crowley had decided to go tie and jacket and everything. Give himself an extra little birthday present of the way Aziraphale reacted whenever Crowley wore the fancy stuff.

Plus Liz had bought a new little black dress for the night, so Anathema had gone full fucking Victorian-goth-witch-formal, and by that point Crowley was feeling a little underdressed.

So he drove them up to the shop, sending a we’re-here text as he climbed out. He’d meet Aziraphale at the door, see him get all flustered and blushing and adorable, maybe kiss him before walking him to the car. Very cool, very slick.

Aziraphale stepped out wearing the goddamn ascot, though, and that threw everything off the rails.

“Oh,” he said, eyes gone wide, fluttering up and down over Crowley’s suddenly boneless figure. “Goodness, Crowley, you look so —”

His cheeks colored, and he brought a hand up to his mouth for a second, reaching it out to rest against Crowley’s chest as he stepped forward. “You’re so _stunningly_ handsome, darling, I don’t — perhaps I should change, I’d thought something a little less formal —”

“Hrgnh,” Crowley replied. Soft hand on his chest and soft belly just brushing his body and there, Aziraphale’s collar, open, casually undone. The ascot peeped out in draping folds which exposed just a bit of throat. Underneath, under the ascot and under the rest of the buttons, was the promise of more bare skin, spreading and stretch-marked and divine. Above, that half-inch of throat.

God. He’d seen Aziraphale totally shirtless by now — had touched him, had held that glorious body skin to skin — and even still he could be fucking destroyed by a single unfastened button.

“Don’t,” he managed. “Don’t change, you look — you’re — nnngh, _words_...”

He cupped Aziraphale’s rounded jaw in both hands, leaning down to kiss it, to trail kisses down beneath it. Aziraphale tipped his head back with a breathy giggle.

“That tickles —”

Crowley settled trembling lips against Aziraphale’s throat, against the tender skin. He could feel a pulse dancing there, light and fast.

“Beautiful,” he mumbled against the skin. Kissed it again, then felt hands slide into his hair. He let himself be guided up so he was looking into Aziraphale’s star-shining eyes. “Want to look at you forever when you wear that.”

“You come home dressed like an absolute god of loveliness and then comment on a silly bit of neckwear —”

“Not silly. Gorgeous. God. Wanna tear open my goddamn _chest_ and keep you there _forever_...”

Aziraphale’s mouth quivered into a smile. “I’d never fit in there, you wonderful man. But I know where I do fit.”

It took a half-second. “Yeah.” He circled Aziraphale’s waist, tightening his arms, the soft belly not just brushing him now but pressed against him. “Perfectly. Think my arms were made for holding you, angel.”

“Perhaps I was made for your arms,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley’s heart stopped, thumping vaguely back into life only when the world’s most precious white-blond head snuggled against his shoulder.

Aziraphale breathed quietly against him. They could stand here all night, honestly, and Crowley would be fine with it. Stand here forever. Aziraphale was in his arms. That was all that mattered.

Something clunked rhythmically behind him. “Guys. This isn’t getting us to the restaurant.”

Crowley rotated them both around, looking over Aziraphale’s hair. Anathema hung out the lowered window of the Bentley. Her chin was propped on one hand, and she was giving him a look that was dry enough to drink the bloody ocean. Liz was pulling on her arm from the other side of the backseat, saying something that sounded like “Be quiet they might _kiss_,” but Anathema just kept smirking.

“It’s _my_ birthday,” he said. “Maybe I’ll just decide to spend it like this.”

Aziraphale’s arms around his shoulders shook with brief laughter. “We may want to move eventually, dear. It’s supposed to get a bit cold tonight.”

“Meh.”

“...and I am hungry.”

“Oh. Well, never mind, then. No empty angel bellies while I’m around.”

Aziraphale’s tone was light, but he spoke much more quietly. “Such concern for my — that part of me. You’re very conscientious.”

“Course,” Crowley murmured back. He nuzzled into Aziraphale’s hair. “I love your belly.”

His answer was a long, slow exhale, Aziraphale’s round body leaning softly into his. “My Crowley,” he said, voice low and thrumming. “Good _Lord_, I am glad you were born.”

His next words were louder, meant to be overheard. “Now, we should perhaps be going, before Anathema drives off in your car herself.”

“Oh, I’m thinking about it,” Anathema said from the Bentley.

Crowley swallowed hard. “Yeah,” he said. “Let’s. Uh. The thing.”

Aziraphale walked him to the car, as it turned out. At least most of the way there, and then Crowley got his senses back, a little bit, was able to take over again. He opened the passenger door for Aziraphale and watched the Bentley settle lower as he climbed in.

_Damn good thing for her that you fit_, he didn’t say. _Sell her right back off again if you didn’t. Lose her entirely before I’d give up any of you._

He closed the door, shutting his perfect angel safely inside.

* * *

It didn’t take long for the meal to degenerate into Gang Up On Crowley Time. It was his birthday, though, so he figured he had it coming. An’s birthdays always involved him and Liz (especially Liz) being as ridiculously affectionate as possible, trying to get the unflappable exterior to crack in a blush or at least a genuine smile. Same concept.

“No, but you don’t understand. He has _always_ been like that.” Anathema speared another of the stuffed olives. “Back in year four, he wouldn’t wear his coat because he didn’t like the color. He’d carry it to school and then swap with me for recess.”

Crowley pointed a finger at her. “It was, was that horrible stripey purple! You thought it was ugly too!”

“Look, the early 90s were full of regrettable fashion design. You still needed a _coat_.”

He waved the idea away. “Was fine. Survived, didn’t I?”

Liz tilted her head. “Wasn’t that the year you came down with the flu, though?”

“Uh...” He glanced sideways through the sunglasses to gauge Aziraphale’s reaction.

“And you missed three weeks of school...”

Aziraphale’s eyebrow climbed ever farther up his forehead.

“And you wound up in hospital?”

He opened his mouth, thinking he’d change the subject. _Hey, how about that wine, huh? Sure is winey!_, maybe. Aziraphale beat him to it, though, saying “_Crowley!_” in a tone of shock that would’ve been funny if it’d been directed at someone else.

Liz blinked at Crowley innocently. “Or was that the year you just had a cold all winter?”

“Look, kids get sick all the time! I, I mean yeah, I was cold a lot, but —”

Aziraphale put a hand on his, resting on the table between them. His fingers stroked over Crowley’s knuckles, back and forth, which was ridiculously distracting. “Love. You have been prioritizing fashion over safety for thirty years now, and the worst thing is that I’m not even surprised.” He looked across the table at the others. “I don’t suppose he so much as went through a _phase_ where he was dressing appropriately?”

“He did have that nice jacket in year eleven,” Liz said.

“Which he wore without gloves or a hat or anything of the sort, I’m sure.”

Anathema raised an eyebrow. “Do you really want us to answer that?”

“‘M fine! Didn’t die or anything!”

Aziraphale gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “And I’m very grateful,” he replied. “Now, do try to keep that up, dear.”

Liz clapped her hands together. “Oh! Has he told you yet about the time he almost fell off the roof of the school?”

“He has _not_.”

“Look, I barely even —”

“Oh, yeah,” Anathema said, leaning on the table and grinning. “It was November, because of course he was up there in November...”

Liz and An traded off for a while on dragging his youthful indiscretions out for Aziraphale to gasp over, and Crowley offered occasional protests. Not enough to make them stop, though. He’d let them trade stories about him all night if they wanted. Listen to them laugh together, voices overlapping, and know that they were all here because they cared about him, sure — but they got along with each other, too. He wasn’t sure when he’d last dated someone his mates actually liked. Been a long damn while. Felt really damn good.

He did have to step in and redirect things a couple times, though.

“...which is funny, because he’s actually really ticklish on the backs of his knees —”

“Hey! Look, are those our mains? Oh, nope, guess not.” Crowley gave Liz his very best sunglasses glare. “Anyway. Enough about that, let’s talk about, uh... ”

He peeked at Aziraphale. His eyes were sparkling. Bad sign.

“...dolphins.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale was grinning, the bastard. “What about them?”

“They’re just, just. Dolphins. Aren’t they?”

Anathema smirked over her wineglass. “And if there’s one thing dolphins don’t have, it’s ticklish knees.”

Crowley threw back his head and groaned. It was all theatrics, though. He was careful to not go flinging his hands around, because the right one was still under Aziraphale’s left, and every once in a while Aziraphale would give his knuckles another caress.

They were on another topic by the time their food arrived. It was something not directly related to Crowley and all his greatest secrets, so he was free to tune out. Watch Aziraphale cut his fillet into neat bits, dabbing the first one into a swirl of sauce. Watch the fork slide past his soft lips; watch his eyes close for a half-second, mouth curving into a tiny smile. Listen to the little sound in his throat that meant he was satisfied. That the first taste had met with his approval.

Crowley released a breath that had held itself for him. Okay. Now he could get to his own meal.

He hacked off a piece of sirloin, dunked it into the little thing of steak butter, and dug in.

* * *

Liz and Anathema each kissed him on the cheek when he dropped them off at the flat.

“Happy birthday, Crowley!” Liz beamed. “We love you. Have a good night.”

Anathema raised an eyebrow when it was her turn. “Good job existing. Keep it up.”

Then they were gone, and it was just him and Aziraphale. Overnight bag in the boot. Crowley’s heart tapping on his ribs, whispering to him that hey, in case he hadn’t noticed, Aziraphale was ridiculously beautiful, and probably could do with some kissing right about now. Maybe a lot of kissing.

A hand stroked down his shoulder. “Let’s go home, my treasure.”

“Home,” Crowley echoed. “Sure.”

The drive back to the shop was quiet. He could feel Aziraphale’s eyes on him, though, and every time he glanced in that direction, he could see them. Watching him with tender, smiling adoration. The most incredible man in the world, right there beside him, and somehow he’d chosen Crowley, in some kind of weird upending of everything that made sense.

As soon as Crowley had them parked again, he was out of the car, zipping around to open Aziraphale’s door. “Right. You’re home.”

“Such a gentleman,” Aziraphale laughed, letting himself be helped out of the car. “Don’t forget your bag again. You’ll feel silly having to run out and fetch it.”

“Yeah.”

He got his overnight bag, which, okay, yes, he had in fact been about to forget. He’d been too busy thinking about “home”. Thinking about Aziraphale saying “Let’s go home”, which was perfectly reasonable, because that was what the bookshop was, Aziraphale’s home and his livelihood both. There was something else, though, something he couldn’t quite remember.

Aziraphale was waiting for him at the door. He did that thing with his eyes again, looking Crowley up and down with a little smile trembling on his lips. “Good _heavens_, you are astoundingly handsome. Every time I believe I’ve come to terms with it, you manage to surprise me.”

Oh yes. Aziraphale had stared at him when he’d come to pick him up, too, had said something Crowley hadn’t really processed at the time, what with his brain being full of unbuttoned collars and soft naked throats.

_You come home dressed like a god of loveliness_...

Like Aziraphale had already moved them in together in his mind, Crowley not just coming and going as he pleased but _living_ here. Clothes in the wardrobe, maybe, and his meds in the bathroom cabinet. A few distinctly common beers shoved in amongst Aziraphale’s wines, because Crowley might have been developing fancier tastes, but he still enjoyed a good brown ale now and then.

Like Crowley didn’t wake up in _his angel’s_ bed when he was here, but in _their_ bed.

He somehow managed to not just swoon into Aziraphale’s arms like a fucking romance novel heroine. Instead he shuffled past, through the open door. “Th — thanks,” he muttered, answering the compliment. “I. Y — thank you.”

He let his bag drop to the floor as Aziraphale locked up behind them. “Home,” he said, tasting the word.

“Yes.” The arms he’d not quite fallen into were circling around him, now, round belly and padded chest pressing against his back. “Ours, so long as you like.”

“D’you —” He stopped. Fuck, he couldn’t ask that. Had no place asking that. Not because he was Crowley, for once, but because it’d be presumptuous no matter what.

Aziraphale ran gentle hands up and down his scrawny middle. “Do I what, lovely?”

“Just. I’m not — this isn’t me asking for, for anything, you’ve already given me _everything_, but...”

Aziraphale snuggled closer against him, hands holding him around the waist. Just above where his hips did their stupid flaring thing, where they refused to lie flat. Funny how he’d never thought before about the way Aziraphale’s hands fit him there. All the many wonderful hours he’d spent finding perches for his own hands, on love handles and rolls and the perfect crest of belly, and he’d never noticed his own body making a home for Aziraphale’s hands all along.

Home. That word again.

“Do you want me to. To move in?”

The jolt he felt at that was enough to tell him instantly what a mistake he’d made. Aziraphale actually pulled away from him, hands going slack. His gasp was tiny and faint and thunderously loud.

Then Crowley found himself grabbed from behind again, held even tighter, Aziraphale actually lifting him off the ground for a second as he squeezed with bone-grinding force.

“I’d have to show you how to work the washing machine,” he said, voice wavering. “It’s somewhat finicky. And I could open one of the spare rooms for your plants, seeing as they’re just storage right now, so it would be easy enough to move things around. We’d have to find a place for whatever furniture you wanted to bring...”

Crowley started laughing. He laughed hard enough that he would’ve fallen on his arse if Aziraphale hadn’t been holding him, hard enough that he could barely breathe. Or maybe that was all the love flooding his chest.

“— adorable —” he choked out, “fucking — you’re just so —” He lost the rest in a hysterical wheeze, eyes watering. “Y’haven’t — haven’t _asked_ yet, just let me, wh, invite myself in —”

“You utterly horrid man,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley could hear the barely suppressed giggling. “I’ve been working up the nerve to ask for weeks now, and you’re right, you just invited yourself in without so much as a by-your-leave.”

“Ask me, then,” Crowley chuckled, “wouldn’t want to be rude here —”

“Oh, do just live with me, beloved. This place is too big for one.”

Crowley’s laughter eased off into silence. Aziraphale went still, too, no more giggles to suppress.

“I was used to it, to be honest. Rattling around the shop and upstairs, enough room for a family, if I had one, but I didn’t. Not one I could have with me.”

He loosened his arms just enough to let Crowley turn around, eyes crinkling when he did. “But then you graced my life with your friendship, dearest, and with your love; and I realize how lonely I was before. I notice how empty this old place is when it’s just me.” Color bloomed in his cheeks. “I don’t sleep as well without you there.”

“Oh,” Crowley observed.

“Now, it’s true the trust pays for the upkeep of the owner and their family, but the rules do stipulate a family in a, well, that is, a _legal_ sense.” Aziraphale let go of him, turning away for a moment, but it was only to pick up his bag and hand it to him. He tugged him toward the stairs, cheeks still very pink. “I’ve got a small inheritance from my parents, though, nothing to do with the shop — you might have guessed that the trust doesn’t cover too many bottles of Châteauneuf-du-Pape as a living expense —”

“Sure,” Crowley remarked.

“— so we wouldn’t have to worry about, oh, both having to buy our own _milk_ just because the trust funds have to be kept separate, since I’m well used to my accountant helping me keep everything straight...”

They were at the foot of the stairs now. “Milk,” Crowley stated. “Right.”

Aziraphale let go of his arm, the excited chatter going quiet. “Your answer... is yes, isn’t it? I assumed, but...”

Crowley blinked. His answer to...? Oh right. Yes. “Yes.” He nodded vigorously, and the dark shadows that had started to form in Aziraphale’s eyes were blasted into nothing by his smile. “I, uh. Gonna have to work out stuff with An and Liz, but yes. Very yes. Very very yes.”

“Then welcome home.” Aziraphale cupped gentle hands against his cheeks, chin tilting up, and Crowley met him immediately. He held onto his overnight bag with one hand, while the other arm wound around the soft expanse of Aziraphale’s waist.

Something in the kiss made Crowley feel like he was being claimed. Like Aziraphale was marking him, _This one is mine, is only mine_; but gently, almost shyly. A label Crowley could always remove if he wanted.

Never remove it. Stick it on with superglue. Nail it to his heart.

Aziraphale broke the kiss, starting upstairs. “Let’s get your things put away, so you aren’t dragging that bag around. And then...” He turned to beam down at Crowley, two steps down on the spiral. “If you wish, we can make an early night of it. Not that we couldn’t stay awake and talk — good Lord, I haven’t even told you about your birthday present yet — but we don’t have to do that on the sofa.”

He turned again once they reached the flat. “We could just curl up in our bed.”

“Gh. Can’t believe that I still get a present on top of —” His brain caught up with the last few words, followed immediately by his bag landing on the carpet. “Our, our. Okay. Uh.”

Aziraphale looked hesitant again. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know where my head is tonight. I...”

Crowley reached out for him. There wasn’t any hesitation at that, at least, no pause at all before Aziraphale closed the couple of paces between them, stepping into his arms and leaning against his shoulder.

“Head’s right here.” He brushed his fingers through soft golden hair. “All of you’s here with me. Where you belong.”

“I’m not... going too fast for you, Crowley?”

This laugh wasn’t like the one downstairs. Just as surprising, when it bubbled out of him, but much quieter. No gasping hilarity this time — just a chuckle that eased its way out of his throat, a little disbelieving, a little shocked.

“I’m the — the speed demon, remember?” He kept stroking Aziraphale’s hair, letting the curls go mussed and then straightening them out again. “Can’t ever go too fast for me. Not possible.”

He kissed Aziraphale’s head, earning a deep sigh in response.

“Can. Can go to bed if you want. Our bed.” Aziraphale made a little noise, a tiny _oh_ sound, and Crowley grinned. “Cuddle up in our bed, in, in our _bedroom_, talk about our —” _Future_, maybe, or _life together_ — “a-about anything you want. Sound good?”

From Aziraphale’s reaction, it sounded pretty damn good.

Getting ready for bed turned out to take a lot longer when it involved breaking for kisses and laughter and everyone hurling themselves into each other’s arms repeatedly; but eventually they managed it, Crowley changing in the bathroom before rejoining Aziraphale in the bedroom. At which point Crowley was all set to throw himself at Aziraphale again, maybe cover his adorable face in kisses. Except Aziraphale beat him to it. Practically pouncing on him as soon as he walked in the door, soft arms winding around his neck, soft lips capturing his with a delighted little hum.

The kiss went on for a while before Crowley registered what his senses were telling him. His arms were around Aziraphale, hands on the perfect curve of love handles as they wrapped to his back, holding just tightly enough to feel the give of all that pretty softness against his fingers. It was _so_ soft, so warm as he shifted his hands, feeling the tender skin against his own —

Skin. Yielding and gorgeous under his arms, spilling over his palms. Aziraphale wasn’t wearing a shirt.

“Beautiful,” Crowley said. Kissed him again, then once more to really drive the point home. “All of you. Love all of you. All your pretty fatness.” Aziraphale smiled up at him, no recoiling at the word, no pulling in or away, and Crowley’s chest lit up fierce and proud. “Goddamn _privilege_ to hold you. To, to see you. Fucking _honor_.”

“You’re a flatterer,” Aziraphale replied, still beaming. “And an absolute darling, and an utter wretch. I’m so glad I don’t have to live without you, Crowley. I could, but now I know how much I would be missing.”

Crowley answered without thinking. “Wouldn’t miss much, angel, I’m not that important or, or...” He trailed off. That was the same old tired thing inside him talking, wasn’t it. And it still felt easier to agree with it, but...

“Wait,” he said. “I mean...”

Aziraphale let go of him just long enough to gather up his hands. “You are important. To me, of course, that should go without saying.” He walked them both to the bed. When he sat down, Crowley collapsed bonelessly next to him. Just looking at him. Wide belly gone even wider, spreading against his lap; sweet face smiling, so gentle that it hurt something in Crowley’s throat; there was just too much to take in, all at once like this, and nothing left in him to muster defenses even if he wanted to.

“But just on your own, dear. Anthony Crowley is important without anyone else having to recognize it.”

Crowley leaned against Aziraphale’s chest, his belly. One hand flattened itself over his angel’s beautiful heart. The other wound around his soft back. So much skin under his arms, and every inch of it precious.

“I’m,” he mumbled, face pillowed on his own hand, feeling Aziraphale’s heartbeat in his palm. “Trying to believe that. Trying to believe I’m enough.”

“I will remind you as often as you like.” One wide arm tightened itself around Crowley’s waist. “That would be _my_ honor.”

“‘zir’phale,” he sighed against his own hand. “‘ngel.” He lifted his head just enough to speak clearly. “Perfect angel.”

“I will never be perfect, my only. But I will always be yours.”

Crowley closed his eyes. “Choose you.”

“We’re going to live together now, you ridiculous man. I would hope you hadn’t changed your mind already.”

Aziraphale’s voice was full of laughter, but he wiggled all the same. That little all-over fidgeting which he only did when he was really, really happy.

“Choose you again even if you are calling me names.” Crowley grinned. “Choose to love you, and, and to live with you even if that means that I can’t escape the tartan now.”

“Well,” Aziraphale huffed.

“You’re worth _tartan_, Aziraphale. Huge sacrifice I’m making.”

“Oh, but you’re horrid.” The arm around his waist pulled back. “I’m going to bed, you horrid, awful man. I do hope you’ll make the terrible sacrifice of joining me.”

Crowley let himself be shaken off. It stung a little, but not as much as it would’ve before he’d started working with Lara. He could force himself to hear the affection in Aziraphale’s voice. He could see, really _see_ how Aziraphale didn’t go anywhere at all, just turned out the light, then stood by the bed waiting for him to move over. Even in the dim of the hall light, his round face glowed with what it was impossible to read as anything at all but love.

Crowley flopped to his side of the bed (his side of _their_ bed), pulling back a corner of the fussy antique quilts.

Tartan sheets glared back at him.

“Aaaaughhh,” he moaned, slithering under the covers anyway. Shifting over to Aziraphale’s side of the bed, meeting him there, arms wrapping around his beautiful naked waist and pulling him into a noisy closed-mouth kiss. “It’s my birthday and we planned for me to stay the night and you put on tartan sheets _anyway_.”

“I do hear tell I’m a bit of a bastard,” Aziraphale smirked, and Crowley kissed him again, with somewhat more intensity.

“Oh,” Aziraphale added a while later, breathless against Crowley’s lips. “Your birthday, darling, I forgot. I haven’t told you about your gift.”

Crowley shook his head. “Already got everything. What, gonna get me another one of, of you? I’d die, angel. Fucking die from joy.”

“What _passes_ for romance from you, lovely, I _swear_.” Aziraphale rolled onto his back, soft hand on Crowley’s arm pulling him across the gap between them, until Crowley’s head was pillowed on his chest, hand splayed on his belly.

Crowley stroked his fingertips down a pretty stretch mark, just once. When he felt the way Aziraphale went even softer at that, hum spiraling lazily out of his throat, he grinned and did it again. Kept doing it, as Aziraphale nuzzled a kiss into his hair, then continued murmuring into the night.

“Do you recall mentioning that you’d love to visit some of the less-public areas of the Royal Botanic Gardens? Well, I happen to know a fellow who works there...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone. Are you doing well? I hope you are.
> 
> If Not Now, When will have 28 chapters, and I am quite certain of this, because I am working my way through that final installment now. There is a lot still to happen, though, including some content next chapter that I think a lot of folks may have been wanting to see for a while. I hope it will be worth the wait.
> 
> If my math is right, the last update will be on Monday the 13th. After that I'll probably pull a short, fuzzy canonverse fic out of my completed drafts as a palate-cleanser on Thursday the 16th. And after that... dunno. I'm already itching to write a "Crowley is a web developer, Aziraphale is a sysadmin, guess what happens when they meet" human AU, plus I keep kicking around the idea of a different human AU based on [this song](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/189910088164/i-keep-thinking-about-that-post-questioning-why). And someday I really need to finish and then post the not-human The Little Mermaid/H. P. Lovecraft AU that I haven't worked on since about September. We shall see!
> 
> I love you all. Please be well. <3


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale have been dating for almost six months, but there is still one wall left between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter-specific warning notes:**
> 
>   * Gender dysphoria/Difficult Trans Feelings
>   * Internalized fatphobia
>   * The airing and processing of some Very Difficult Things. I promise the end of this chapter is soft, but you may still need to exercise caution if you're feeling emotionally vulnerable.
> 
> (Housekeeping note: still behind on comment replies, although very very slightly less behind again. I am trying to get caught up before INNW finishes.)

“Huh? Yeah, he’s around somewhere. Why?”

Warlock shook hair out of his eye. “I dunno, I’ve just never seen him. You’d want to know about someone I was dating, right?”

Crowley wondered if it was possible for an eyebrow to achieve escape velocity. “Young master Warlock, you are _thirteen years old_ and I used to be your _nanny_. Situations’re very different.”

He thought he’d get a smart comment back, but Warlock just looked at the camera silently for a few seconds. “You know,” he said finally. “My friend Becky said for a while that she had a girlfriend in Canada. But, like, she had no pictures of her, and they only talked when no one else was around...”

“Wh, buh, hang on a minute!” Crowley sat up straight for a few seconds, then sprawled randomly again. He was still trying to get used to the furniture in the upstairs sitting room, but the sofa here just wasn’t as comfortable as the one downstairs. “You think I’m, I’m _making Aziraphale up_?!”

“Well, any time you talk about him, it’s just to say how he’s really smart and pretty and stuff. That’s kind of how Becky sounded.”

Crowley gaped. “Aziraphale exists! He’s, he’s downstairs right now, doing bookshop things!”

The look of disbelief wasn’t snarky or sarcastic at all, and that was the most galling part. “Uh huh.”

“Right! Fine! I’ll prove it!”

He jumped off the sofa, trundling down the stairs with phone in hand. “Show you a fake boyfriend, see if I don’t,” he muttered. Well aware that being needled by a kid was ridiculous, but he was nothing if not full of spite. Plus he couldn’t believe there was someone he hadn’t shown Aziraphale off to after nearly six months of dating.

The shop was open, technically, so he refrained from just yelling “Oi, angel!” and listening for the melodic voice calling back. Instead he wandered the rows, dodging would-be customers, keeping up conversation with Warlock (about Cat, now) as he went.

He found Aziraphale back amongst the foreign editions, mouthing something to himself as he looked through what was probably supposed to be part of a reshelving run. He looked up when Crowley approached, though, distracted eyes coming into focus again, lips curving softly.

“...so you’d want her leash-trained anyway. Hang on.” Crowley tilted the phone toward his shoulder. “Hey, angel. What’re you reading?”

Aziraphale answered him with a kiss first, plump fingers coaxing his chin down to line their mouths up perfectly. “Mmm. A Japanese textbook, actually. I fear my kanji has gotten rather rusty. I’ve been pondering taking it back up again as a sort of refresher.”

“God, you’re such a nerd.” All the soppiness in the world dripping from his voice, of course. “D’you know, you’ve never met Warlock?”

“Well, naturally. The boy lives in America.”

Crowley waggled his phone. “Skype, angel. Wanna say hi?”

He had some pictures of Aziraphale on his phone, finally. Most heartbreaking thing in the world, realizing that the reason he never got any selfies in their text conversations was because Aziraphale hated photos of himself. Was because his gorgeous fat angel boyfriend actually thought he was ugly. The first time he’d sent one, it’d been with an _apology_ of all things, and Crowley had had no choice but to hold him as tight as he could the second he’d gotten home from work. To whisper _angel, pretty angel, you’re all I want to look at, angel_ against his cheeks and forehead and soft double chin until Aziraphale’s eyes had crinkled sweetly up at him, self-consciousness temporarily forgotten.

Aziraphale still didn’t much like cameras. If he said no now, that’d be the end of it.

“He...” Soft voice, meant for just Crowley, and Crowley muted the phone accordingly. Soft hand tentative on his arm. “He’s a good young man, is he? Not — unkind?”

Crowley looped golden curls around his fingers. “He’s thirteen, ‘s a messy age, but... I did my best, y’know?”

He ran his hand through Aziraphale’s hair a few more times, neatening it back up again. The silence was probably all the answer he needed.

“Hey. Never mind, my pretty little angel.” He kissed the corner of Aziraphale’s mouth. “You go back to your Japanese. He definitely heard enough to believe you exist —”

“No. No, I’d... I would like to meet him. He’s so important to you.”

Aziraphale put his book on a shelf, then made one of his musical little humming noises as Crowley swept an arm around his waist, pulling them close together, hip to soft pillowy hip. His arm looped around Crowley’s back to complete the circuit.

“Lemme unmute, hang on.” Crowley held the phone up so only he was visible. “Still there, kiddo?”

“Yeah.” A furry head blocked the view briefly. “Hey — get _down_, Cat.” A thump and an aggrieved meow.

Crowley grinned. “Warlock, meet my smart and pretty and amazing boyfriend Aziraphale. Angel, this is the hellion I spent eleven years running after.”

He tilted the phone until they were both in frame. Him with his noisy red hair and his sunglasses and his traditional good looks, the ones he wanted to lock in a box anytime Aziraphale wasn’t around. Aziraphale, all shimmering moonbeam curls and curious eyes and a faint blush riding his pudgy cheeks. Divinely beautiful, as always.

“Ah,” Aziraphale said, giving the phone a little wave. “Hello.”

“You _are_ real.” Dammit, but Warlock had no business sounding that surprised. “Hi. You really are dating nanny Anthony?”

Aziraphale looked up at Crowley, eyes dancing. “Would it be _dreadfully_ embarrassing for you if I said no?”

“Y — if you said no?!”

“Well, yes. ‘Oh, he’s not my boyfriend.’” Aziraphale giggled. “‘We’ve never met before. We don’t know each other.’”

Crowley groaned, although he stopped when delicate lips brushed his jaw.

“Yes,” Aziraphale said to the screen. His hand on Crowley’s waist stroked gently up and down for a moment. “Anthony and I have been dating since last fall.”

The name didn’t seem quite right, coming out of Aziraphale’s mouth. Not wrong like his birth name, but not right, either. “Crowley” always sounded like “dear” or “darling” or “my treasure”, sweet and full of love. “Anthony” just sounded like a name.

“Huh.” Warlock was just looking now, almost staring, and Crowley felt his stomach drop. He’d fly to America and chew the kid out himself if he said anything rude to Aziraphale, but the damage would already be done, and it would be his own damn fault for suggesting this...

Warlock nodded, though. Just once, very firmly. “Yeah, you’re okay,” he said. “Nanny Anthony should have someone who’s nice to him. But you seem nice, so that’s good.”

Aziraphale’s cheeks pinked again, just a bit.

“Oh, he’s a bastard, don’t let that pretty face fool you.” Crowley grinned as the hand on his waist curled tighter. “But he’s my bastard. Wouldn’t change him a bit.”

“Dear, you really shouldn’t curse in front of him.”

“Been doing it since he was a fucking baby,” Crowley replied, and Warlock’s laugh tumbled out of his phone speaker. “Little late to worry about it now.”

* * *

Crowley stretched his arms along the back of the sofa. “Wish I hadn’t bought you that stupid print, now. Never thought I’d have to look at it every day myself.”

“Yes, well, I’m not moving it.” Aziraphale sat down beside him, mug of tea set aside on the end table. “It happens to have a very special meaning to me.”

“Sentimental.” He smiled as he suddenly acquired a warm, heavy armful of angel. Curled his hand around Aziraphale’s shoulder with a sigh. “So what’s the plan for today? Refuse to sell books for a while, lunch, back to the grind?”

“Something like that. I do want to run to the credit union at some point, but we could do that during lunch.”

“Sure.” He closed his eyes and grinned as Aziraphale kissed his cheek. “Gnh.”

“Have I mentioned lately how lovely you are?”

Crowley put his other arm around Aziraphale, hand slowly rubbing circles against the side of his waistcoat. “Probably. We can just say yeah.”

“Well, it wouldn’t do to make assumptions.”

He shifted, and Crowley paused for a moment, but it was okay; Aziraphale wasn’t pulling away, wasn’t uncomfortable with his touch. He was moving closer, actually. Reaching up to run gentle fingers down Crowley’s face, brow to temple to jaw.

“Because you’re terribly lovely, after all. More than I can say. A lovely heart, a lovely soul.”

His fingers brushed against Crowley’s temple again, making him shiver. “You know, I’ve never asked about your tattoo. I’ve only admired how it looks on you. If it’s not too personal...”

“Nlcgh,” Crowley replied, melting further against him as fingers continued to trace the inked lines. “‘S fine. I. I got it just after I left home. I was still pre-everything, and.” He took a deep breath. Twenty years and the memories still had teeth. “I just... wished I could shed my skin. Like a snake, yeah? And come out who I was inside.”

Aziraphale’s voice was mournful. “Oh, my Crowley.”

“But it’s okay. I... there’s still bad days. Always will be. But..." He thought about his scars, about the way they looked when he stared them down in the mirror. How they hadn’t won one of those late-night staring contests for a couple weeks now. “I think I might just be who I am, now. Maybe have been for a while.”

“You’re wonderful.” Aziraphale lifted Crowley’s hand from his belly, pressing soft lips to the palm. “A very good sort of man, even if you’re also horrid sometimes. And so handsome that I’m sure I don’t know how I can stand it.”

Crowley squirmed. “Don’t,” he said, but he could hear the smile in his own voice.

“And the way you cling sometimes, I swear you actually do have coils. My very own serpent.”

The best answer Crowley could give to that was to wrap even more tightly around Aziraphale, filling his arms with every inch of beautiful fat angel that he could reach. “‘S nice,” he muttered against one plump shoulder. “You’re so nice to hold. So nice.”

Aziraphale hummed, the sound quiet and thoughtful. Crowley felt him take a breath, like he wanted to say something, but then there was silence.

“Angel?”

Another deep breath. “Oh. It’s... it’s not the same thing at all, of course, but I was thinking about what you said. About shedding your skin.”

“Myeah?”

“For a long time, I wished I could — could shed part of myself, too.” When he went on, his voice was barely above a murmur. “Quite a lot of myself.”

_“Angel_.”

“And wake up one morning the — the person everyone told me I was supposed to be.”

Crowley unwound himself from the most beautiful man in the world only so that he could lay trembling hands against his round cheeks and gaze directly into his eyes. “You’re exactly who you’re supposed to be.”

“I know.”

“No, not — don’t just ‘I know’ me. You’re exactly right, Aziraphale, and you always will be, okay? Still no upper limit on that. I mean it. None.” He stroked his thumbs across Aziraphale’s cheeks, then let his fingers play down the curve of his jaw, his double chin. Everything was soft and rounded with fat, no hard edges anywhere. “God, you... you’re so amazing. How could you ever want the world to have _less_ of you in it?”

Aziraphale’s eyes shimmered. “I mostly don’t, anymore. There are... bad days. As you said, there always will be.” He looked down, laying one hand on his own belly, seeming to test the heft of it. “But I’m not sure who I would be, anymore, if I hadn’t always been — large. I can’t see that person at all.”

“Don’t want to see him. Just want to see you.”

“Flirt.” Aziraphale smiled at him, small but still enough to light up his eyes. “You have always been the most terrible flirt.”

Crowley kissed him briefly. “‘S your fault. You do something to me and I can’t help it.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah.” Another kiss. “I could try to stop it and it’d still happen. Stupid nonsense just spilling out everywhere. Total accident.”

This time the kiss was initiated by Aziraphale, and it lasted somewhat longer. “Like your Christmas gift to me, hmm? Back at the Clover Cafe, you asked me about that horrid painting, and then said I was better to look at than it was...”

“Never should have reminded you,” Crowley groaned. “So embarrassing, saying something like that.”

Aziraphale’s lips twitched. “I never forgot, darling. That was the first time I thought that there might be a chance. That you might possibly have feelings for me. Or could, someday.”

“‘M pretty sure I fell for you the day you gave that damned muffin away.”

“Hmm.” Aziraphale ruffled a hand through Crowley’s hair, a lazy smile on his face. “Is that why you started giving me free food?”

Crowley made a tiny noise as the hand in his hair did something to his brain. “Think so. Didn’t know why then. Hadn’t realized yet how bloody perfect you were.”

The hand in his hair repeated the thing, and he relaxed into Aziraphale again.

“No upper limit?”

“None. Never.” Crowley squeezed him and sighed happily. “You’ll always be exactly you-shaped.”

“And... I don’t suspect it will come up, quite frankly, but... no lower limit either?”

That stopped Crowley for a moment. He thought about the way Aziraphale felt against him, warm and soft and comfortable. Put one hand against Aziraphale’s waistcoat, on that glorious mound of belly, and tried to picture it smaller. Maybe gone entirely. He pictured an Aziraphale who didn’t find endless joy in a good meal, who would maybe purposefully _deny_ himself that joy, over and over again, chasing the hope that it would all be worth it in the end. All the rounded edges of him going firm, no plump fingers, no pillowy chest... no double chin to turn every pout into an unbearable temptation...

“I, um.” Crowley traced out one careful circle on the waistcoat. “It’s your body, Aziraphale, I don’t get a vote, but... don’t ever worry about me wanting you to, um. Test that.”

Aziraphale kissed him, very gently, but for long enough that Crowley started to feel faint. His heart was pounding by the time they finished, vision gone dim and sparkling around the edges. They were both breathing like they’d just learned the trick and had decades of missed oxygen to make up for.

“Angel,” Crowley managed, eventually. “Love you, angel. Whole lot.”

“I love you more than I can say, my darling serpent.”

Crowley dropped his head to Aziraphale’s chest and smiled into it.

“And there are no... bodily limits to my feelings, either.”

“Mnuh?”

Aziraphale nuzzled the top of his head. “I could spend the rest of my life without once seeing you shirtless, beloved, and I would thank Heaven for every day of it...”

Crowley swallowed. _The rest of my life_ —

“...but you never need to hide yourself from me. Any more than I need to hide myself from you.”

_The rest of my life._ It wasn’t like Aziraphale hadn’t said things like that before. About “years and years”, and “forever”, and the vague dim future. But that very specific unit of time, one Aziraphale-life — had he ever put it that way before? Why did it feel different when he did? 

He might say yes. If Crowley could find the strength to ask the only question that mattered to him, Aziraphale might actually say yes.

“You’ve mentioned your scars before. I don’t ever have to see them. But I promise you that I would love them every bit as much as I love the rest of you.”

Crowley thought about that as his angel breathed quietly beneath him. Nodded. “Guess it’s not fair that I’ve stripped you a few times already but not done it myself.”

“Stripped — _really_, Crowley.” Aziraphale sounded flustered enough that Crowley had to take a peek, and — yep, he was blushing. An absolutely delicious shade of pink. Looked amazing on him. “I hardly think that’s an appropriate description.” A pause. “And it’s not a matter of fairness, either. Intimacy is never something to be owed.”

“No,” agreed Crowley.

He thought about it some more.

Lara would probably have something to say about trust or letting people past his walls or some garbage like that. About being ready to spend the rest of his life with someone, and ideally getting that someone’s shirt off to admire what was beneath as often as he had permission; but not thinking he was ready to be seen himself, even though he couldn’t, anymore, really come up with a reason why.

Bloody annoying how reasonable she could be sometimes.

“‘M probably going to elbow you in the face or something,” he said. “Sorry about that.”

He sat up. Took off his overshirt and tossed it behind him on the sofa. Started to take off his t-shirt, then stopped.

Aziraphale had folded his hands in his lap. He looked at Crowley with so much love, so much fucking patience, that it should have been illegal. Should have counted as murder, the way it imploded Crowley’s heart like this.

“You can.” His voice shook. “Can do the honors. If you want.”

“Are you sure?” Aziraphale shifted, turning sideways on the sofa so that they faced each other. His hands settled hesitantly on Crowley’s thin chest. “I don’t mean to pressure you into anything, dearest. I want to _deserve_ your trust, not demand it.”

Crowley nodded, eyes squeezed shut. “You deserve it. You deserve everything. Green light. Go ahead.”

He felt Aziraphale’s lips brush his, just a quick touch at the corner of his mouth.

Soft hands tracked down his body and lifted up his shirt. Up, over his raised arms, and then it was off and gone.

The room was so cold, all of a sudden.

“Open your eyes, please, darling.”

For a moment, he couldn’t. Keeping them shut the rest of his life seemed easier than having to see Aziraphale’s reaction. But, of course, that would mean never seeing Aziraphale again, and nothing was worth that.

He opened his eyes.

“I cannot imagine anything lovelier than you,” Aziraphale told him, and he was smiling when he said it, eyes crinkling, shining, _glowing_, and Crowley put his face in his hands and fucking bawled.

Instantly there were arms around him, heavy and warm, drawing him into a familiar ocean of softness. He scrabbled his own arms around Aziraphale’s neck. Buried his face in Aziraphale’s chest, huge sobs wracking his body, and all the while his angel held him, stroking his back, his shoulders, his hair.

“Oh, my Crowley,” he murmured. “My handsome Crowley. My dearest love. You’re so beautiful, sweet serpent, just as you are...”

The words went on and on, a soothing rhythm that just made Crowley cry harder. It was so fucking _unfair_. Aziraphale loved him, loved him completely, and how was he supposed to deal with that? How was he supposed to survive any of this?

“I love you so much, Crowley.” Gentle pressure on the side of his head as Aziraphale kissed him. “We could have eternity together and I still wouldn’t be able to tell you how much. My darling boy. My only. My beau.”

Crowley coughed out a brief laugh. “Nob’dy says ‘beau’ anymore, ‘zir’phale.”

Another kiss on the side of his head. “I’m afraid I’m running out of endearments. I didn’t really have a list prepared.”

Crowley laughed again, watery and muffled against Aziraphale’s chest, but still genuine. The next sob almost didn’t hurt, even.

“‘ve ruined your waistcoat, prob’ly.”

“No matter. I have a dozen of them, but there’s only one of you, my treasure.”

“God.” Crowley pulled an arm back so he could scrub at his eyes. “You’re so fucking sentimental, Aziraphale. It’s disgusting.”

“Is it, my jewel?”

“Mngh. Yeah. Never stop.”

Aziraphale laughed at that, soft body shaking.

“No, but I should. Should get cleaned up. ‘M a mess.”

Nails scratched at his scalp in the way that always made him shiver, only this time it also drew another hiccuping sob out of him. “Would it make you feel better?”

Crowley nodded against him.

“All right. Did you get a chance to do the laundry yesterday? I’m not sure whether there are towels under the sink...”

“Did. There are.” Crowley peeled himself away from the remains of Aziraphale’s waistcoat, covering his face as best he could. “Hang on.”

He scrubbed his face with the lavender-scented soap which Aziraphale liked to buy, because of course he did. Wouldn’t help with the fact that his face must be swollen and blotchy, but at least he didn’t have to be all... gooey.

When he was dried off, he walked straight back over to the sofa. Didn’t want to give himself time to think about the fact that he was still naked from the waist up. Just wanted to think about Aziraphale, who was still sitting there, waiting for him. Waistcoat now mysteriously absent, soft belly pushing against the fabric of his shirt. Crowley was thinking very hard about that belly, as he sat down, because if he was thinking about how beautiful Aziraphale’s body was, then he wasn’t thinking about his own.

“Okay,” he said. “I’m... I’m here.”

Aziraphale reached out one cautious hand.

“May I...?”

Crowley cleared his throat. “Sure.”

“Thank you.”

He placed his palm on Crowley’s stomach, first, and his smile was so gentle that it hurt to look at. “Slenderness is so strange to me. You’re so — so compact.” His fingers traced up Crowley’s side. “It’s still a surprise to me, being able to feel your ribs a bit like this.”

“Belly’s loads better’n ribs,” Crowley mumbled.

“Hush, dear. It’s my turn to admire you.”

Crowley swallowed a whimper.

“Your body is lovely.” Both of Aziraphale’s hands were now on Crowley’s flat stomach. “Not quite so thin that I would worry about you; and of course, I know you do eat, so...” He paused, then, blushing just a little. “Although — I don’t want you to believe that it’s only your slenderness I admire. It’s — I love _you_, Crowley, I —”

Crowley laughed shakily. “No upper limit, right?”

“None at all.”

Pudgy hands moved over Crowley’s body. Circling his waist, there where it dipped in a little, right above where his hips widened. Aziraphale brushed a thumb against his skin, and fuck, he was _smiling_, all the warm force of his feelings right there on his face, lips curling tenderly, eyes shining bright.

“Oh, you’re enchanting,” he whispered, running his hands up Crowley’s sides. “Your skin feels different than mine — not rough, exactly, but —”

Crowley shrugged. “T,” he said. “Used to be softer.”

Fingers stroked down his stomach again. “It’s very, very pleasant.”

“Th-thanks.” He closed his eyes. Aziraphale’s hands curved to his back, still caressing. Still smoothing adoration into his scrawny frame with every touch. 

It was like Aziraphale didn’t want to miss a single bit of him. Like his fingers needed to experience every inch of Crowley, just like Crowley had needed to feel all Aziraphale’s magnificent softness. There was a sort of tender desire in his touch which Crowley hadn’t expected. Not greedy, not seeking anything he wasn’t willing to give. Just... admiring. Treasuring.

The hands slipped up his sides. Stopped right beneath his scars.

He opened his eyes, and Aziraphale was watching him. Waiting.

“Go ‘head,” he whispered.

They were a dull purple, even after all these years, and raised slightly. He’d tried to take care of them, really he had, but they’d widened all the same, pulled at every time he’d stretched or turned or raised his arms in the weeks after his surgery. And they curved. No straight firm pale lines here, not the kind of After photo that got passed around like a dream amongst pre-top guys. His scars were the kind that still very clearly described the contours of what was gone. Hideous things. Like fucking brands across his skin.

Aziraphale ran his fingers along them, from the outside in and back out again. So light that Crowley almost couldn’t feel it. Couldn’t feel the way his touch burned like ice.

His eyes were so serious. Like he was considering, judging, any second he’d find Crowley wanting, and then —

“I knew I would love them,” Aziraphale murmured. “They’re yours, my dear. How could I not?”

Crowley felt his stupid eyes go watery again as Aziraphale beamed at him, one of the really good ones, the ones that lit him up like a goddamn supernova. “They show where you’ve been,” he went on, still tracing the lines of twisted flesh. “What you’ve chosen to keep as yourself, and what you’ve decided wasn’t right. Wasn’t you.”

Crowley shrugged and mumbled something.

“And I love you, Crowley. Not some version of you who hasn’t shared your journey. You.” Aziraphale’s eyes dropped down again, looking at Crowley’s chest, his scars, with nothing in his eyes but joy, and Crowley was dying. Was all but dead. “May I have your permission to kiss them?”

“Fucking...” Crowley bit his lip savagely against another sob. “I... no. ‘M sorry, it’s not fair, but I... ‘m not ready. Not for that.”

Aziraphale wrapped his arms around Crowley’s waist, practically hauling him into his lap, the movement so sudden that it shocked a little squeak out of him. “My darling _idiot_ boy, don’t you _dare_ apologize. I don’t care if you’re never ready.” He leaned his head on Crowley’s shoulder. “But you never need to worry about what my feelings will be. I love every part of you.”

“Some parts’re broken, though,” Crowley mumbled against Aziraphale’s hair.

“Then I will love them even more.”

“Stupid.” He let his arms find Aziraphale’s shoulders, trying to relax against his soft body. “Stupid wonderful angel.”

“Darling idiot boy.”

“Ssserpent,” Crowley replied, hissing out the word on purpose. He wound his arms even tighter around Aziraphale’s neck, squirming on his lap to hook one skinny leg around his. “‘M your serpent, remember? Coil up around you and never let you go.”

“Darling idiot serpent, then. I’ll be mindful of apples from you.”

Aziraphale raised his head to look at him, and the love beaming out of his round face was enough to kill Crowley five times over. And bring him back six.

“Ma —”

He cut himself off just in time. _Marry me_, he’d been about to say, two flat unromantic words while he sat here with his face still a horrorshow from crying and Aziraphale’s waistcoat probably sitting ruined in a sad little heap under the sofa. No. No, he wouldn’t ask now. But when it was right — when he had his angel smiling at him, pressed fat and beautiful against him, just like this —

“Maybe,” he went on, “I’ll tempt you with pears instead. Sneaky like that, I am. And you like pears.”

Aziraphale kissed him on the nose. “You’re already the ultimate temptation, dear. Exactly as you are.”

Crowley shivered at that, and couldn’t seem to stop for a while. Aziraphale held him, though, and murmured sweet nothings into his ear, pet names and declarations of love and compliments. Somewhere around “You’re perfect, darling” he started to feel a bit better. Somewhere around “I choose you again” his heart felt quiet at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you, everyone. I hope you are all doing well, and my thoughts are with you if you are not. <3
> 
> We have two updates left after today, with the last one being Monday, January 13th. After that I'll probably pull a short, fuzzy canonverse fic out of my completed drafts as a palate-cleanser on Thursday the 16th. And there are a variety of things which I might follow on with after that, from relatively high-angst canonverse all the way to the theoretical "the one where they work in IT" human AU, which will probably be a mostly-fluffy longer one-shot if I do finish it. You can always see whatever the latest news on that front might be via [my Tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/).


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spring turns into summer, and Crowley's life (again, still) progresses on a number of fronts, family and friends and all the things he really cares about. Including, finally, a plan to ask the only question that matters to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter-specific warning notes:** None?

It was the stupidest thing, how it worked out in the end. Like someone’s idea of a joke.

They’d been living together for four months. Probably long enough that Crowley should have been used to waking up next to Aziraphale, or on top of him or under him, depending on who had flopped onto whom in the night.

(“It doesn’t... hurt, does it?” Spoken quietly to empty air one morning, after he’d woken to find Aziraphale laid out in a very undignified sprawl across his entire upper body, and his snort of laughter had jolted the angel awake. There’d been a sudden panicked flailing that had ended with Aziraphale facing away from him, as far away as he could get. “I’m not... not too heavy to...” And Crowley had coaxed him back, all that soft cozy weight on his chest again, stroking curls back from Aziraphale’s forehead. Telling him how perfect he was, how pretty and fat and not too heavy at all, not a bit.)

Spring turned into summer, and the flat got warm at night, and the quilts came off the bed. 

(Crowley took off his shirt in the middle of one night, mumbling something about how he supposed it didn’t matter, it being dark and all, and Aziraphale had rolled over toward him, had put a tentative hand on his shoulder. “May I —” he’d started, and Crowley hadn’t even let him finish, had just shoved over so his back was pressed against Aziraphale’s bare belly. Aziraphale’s arms had circled him around the waist and pulled in tight. Crowley had slept soundly then, wrapped in his angel, skin against skin.)

Aziraphale’s habit of leaving books all over the flat got irritating, and Crowley apparently did not know how to organize the refrigerator properly. They both managed to steal all the hot water while the other was in the shower, several times.

(“I love you, Crowley.” Stepping into Crowley’s arms, where he’d always fit perfectly. “And I choose you again, even if you are a pest sometimes.” Crowley smiling into his hair, squeezing his rounded sides. “Choose you too, you fussy bastard. Again. Still.”)

It was still so simple, so weirdly beautiful, maybe even because it wasn’t always easy. It felt like something Crowley was almost ready to trust. Something he did trust, sometimes, forgetting how it felt to be afraid of being happy. Forgetting to expect it all to end. For a couple days running, sometimes, the thought of _I live with my incredible gorgeous boyfriend_ would not be followed by an internal grumble of _For now_.

And then he had to go and try to propose, and what a fucking mess _that_ wound up being.

* * *

Sessions with Lara always ended with confirming the schedule on the next couple weeks, then lining up one or two more after that. Every Monday like clockwork, unless she was out, or he had a weird schedule that week.

One day in April, she looked at her schedule book and hummed quietly. “Do you feel like you need to see me next week?”

Crowley frowned. “I, uh. If you’re gonna be out, we can cancel, I guess...”

“Let me rephrase. Do you feel like you need to see me _every_ week?” Then, when Crowley only stared: “We’ve been working together for six months now. I know it hasn’t always been easy for you, but you’ve stuck with it, and that’s always very important.”

“...sure?”

“I’ve seen a lot of progress since we started. And you always get to set the pace, but I want you to think about whether you need a weekly session at this point.”

The same old tired yelling started up in Crowley’s head. _Of course she wants to see you less, who wouldn’t?_

_Shut the fuck up_, he answered it. _She’s right._

“I mean.” He poked at one of the sofa pillows. “Guess we’ve ended early a lot lately. Don’t feel so fucking wrung out after, most of the time. And it’s just...”

He breathed in deep. Looked at the brick wall behind her and thought for a minute.

“It’s just easier. A little.” Still terrifying to admit it, but — “It feels like things maybe can be okay. Like _I_ can be okay. Maybe.”

Lara gave him one of her very rare smiles. “It’s good to hear you saying that.”

Crowley shrugged.

“I definitely would like for you to keep coming in, because we still have work to do —”

“Oh, do we now,” Crowley said, with mostly good humor.

“— but it’s up to you what that looks like.”

A pause. “Every two weeks. Is that okay?”

She smiled, again, pencil in hand. “I think that’s a good idea. So we’re canceling the 27th, then.” The smile turned into a dry little grin. “I’m glad you didn’t give up on your fish.”

“Yeah.” Crowley’s chest warmed just a little. “So’m I.”

* * *

“Yay!” Liz threw her arms around Crowley as soon as he walked into what was now just her and Anathema’s flat, knocking them both a little sideways until Crowley got his feet under himself again. “Now everyone’s here. I wanted to start a game of Cluedo, but Anathema refuses to play with just two.”

Aziraphale came in behind Crowley. Instantly Liz was gone, switched to the new target, although he didn’t so much as wobble under the force of her hug. “Hi Aziraphale! You’ll play, right?”

“Only if Crowley promises not to pout if he loses.” He patted Liz on the back, giving Crowley an arch look over her shoulder. “I do not want a repeat of the last time.”

“Wasn’t pouting. Just think it wasn’t fair, Mrs White being the murderer.” He slouched over to Anathema and slung an arm around her shoulders. “Feel like there was, whatsit, extenuating circumstances there,” he informed her. “Working-class solidarity, y’know?”

Anathema ignored him, rolling her eyes toward Aziraphale instead. “He was pouting.”

“Oh, goodness, yes.”

“Please help yourselves to drinks in the refrigerator on the top shelf,” Liz said, heading back into the kitchen. “Dinner’s going to be about twenty more minutes, I think. If I can just get this new blender thing working.”

“...maybe I should help you with that, babe?”

Anathema slipped out from under Crowley’s arm and hurried after Liz. 

“_Pouting_, he says.” Crowley dropped onto the sofa, tossing a cushion out of the way. “So undignified. That what you think of me, is it?”

Aziraphale’s eyes danced. “I doubt you want to know what I think of you, dear. It’s terribly uncomplimentary.”

Crowley threw another of the cushions at him.

“See? A rude guest, to boot. I certainly won’t be getting you a beverage while I’m picking one up for myself.”

“Old Speckled Hen if there’s any!” Crowley called after him. He retrieved the thrown cushion, fluffing things up a bit before putting it back. Creating a nice soft nest for his angel. Very important, that.

Aziraphale’s cultured voice joined the other two for a bit, the words not quite audible from the kitchen. There was the whirl of a blender, followed by a grinding clunk, silence, and then laughter.

“Dinner might be a little late,” Liz giggled, emerging from the kitchen with a bottle in hand. “Also, I kind of got kicked out of the kitchen. Hello!”

Crowley accepted the bottle, then flung his legs across her knees once she’d sat down. “Computerization strikes again?”

“Yeah, well.” She sighed theatrically. “Back in _my_ day...”

* * *

Red Red closed in June. The new owners had gambled and lost at turning it into a more upscale eatery (the type where you _could_ reasonably expect to be able to get a bottle of Château Mouton-Rothschild), which meant everyone who’d survived the previous layoffs was now out of a job.

“I’m just worried about some of the younger servers. And a couple of the guys back of house.” Crowley stared through his glass of Montrachet. “I’ll land on my feet, probably. Got my savings. Got my sugar angel.”

“Your sugar — _really_, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, although his fingers didn’t stop their lazy trailing up and down Crowley’s side. “Yes, we’re fortunate to not have to worry about a number of living expenses, but —”

Crowley kissed him just under the fold of double chin, turning the scolding into a giggle. “What ‘really’? Sweet as sugar, aren’t you?” He set his wine down so he could comb slow fingers through Aziraphale’s hair. “And obviously you’re an angel. Halo would give it away even without the divine beauty.”

“You wretched flatterer.” Aziraphale’s voice rumbled from somewhere deep in his chest. “I do wonder whether you’ve had quite enough wine for today.”

“Still on my first, sweet angel. But nice try.”

Aziraphale’s hand curled around his skinny waist, resting perfectly above the curve of his hip. Pulling him very close. Crowley thought about kissing his pretty chins again, but found his mouth otherwise occupied.

* * *

“This is betrayal! J — just, abject betrayal!” Crowley pointed a trembling finger at him. “We were on the same side!”

“Actually, this is very good tactics,” Wensleydale replied. “And I’d rather be on Pepper’s side anyway.”

He aimed another stream of water at Crowley’s face, then ran off around the corner of the Youngs’ house.

Crowley scrambled up from the grass, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Oi, Brian! Watch out, Wensleydale’s gone —”

A yell from the front garden told him he was too late.

He grabbed his own water gun — keep it out of the hands of the enemy if nothing else — and charged around the other way. Pepper was a killer, but if he ran into Adam he might be able to get one good shot in before being taken down again. The back door was open, though, and standing primly on the step, sipping at a cup of tea, was — 

“Aziraphale!” He staggered toward him, wild-eyed and dripping. “I’m beset by _hooligans_, angel! D’you know, that punk Wensleydale defected to Pepper and Adam’s team?!”

Aziraphale stepped back, looking mildly panicked. “Don’t touch me, dearest, you’re soaking wet.”

“Wounded in pitched battle! Not long for this world, my beautiful angel — just one last kiss before I go —”

He leaned over, trying to bridge the distance without having to stand too close, and Aziraphale, laughing, stepped forward again. Kissed him brief but longing, pulling a little gasp from his lungs before drawing back.

“‘O God of battles, steel my Crowley’s heart’,” he recited, grinning. “‘Possess it not with fear.’”

“Ugh, that’s one of the gloomy ones, isn’t it.”

Crowley trailed a hand down Aziraphale’s round jaw, pulling him in for one last closed-mouth smack, then thrust his water gun into the air. “For England!” he yelled, storming back into the garden.

Where four assailants proceeded to open fire on him at once.

“_Ackblb!_”

* * *

He bought the ring in early July.

He’d been looking for weeks, actually, since before their trip out to Tadfield. But when Adam had greeted them as “Uncle Aziraphale” and “Uncle Crowley”, and Aziraphale had darted a glance at Crowley, eyes gone all soft-smiling and shy —

Yeah. After that, the search got a lot more intense. He was temporarily unemployed, anyway, so he had lots more time to haunt all the jewelers of central London.

He found what he wanted, finally, in a shop in Mayfair. The rings were understated, sort of simple, really, but the shop did custom engraving. One of the samples on display was a bejeweled women’s ring carved with tiny, delicate feathers.

Crowley asked whether they could do the same feathers on a men’s gold band. The answer was yes.

Getting Aziraphale’s ring size was easier than he thought it would be. Crowley almost always fell asleep later, woke up earlier, slept lighter; one night he just smuggled a bit of string into bed and measured Aziraphale’s finger with it.

A few days into July, there was a little box at the bottom of Crowley’s sock drawer. There was also a plan starting to form in his head. It was, after all, not three weeks until the anniversary of the day he’d first really noticed Aziraphale — the day of the blueberry muffin.

* * *

“My _dear_ precious boy. Neither of us is getting anything done just lying in bed like this.”

“‘M getting loads done.” Crowley wrapped around Aziraphale even more tightly, tangling his bony knees up in round legs, squeezing his long arms into the soft pillow of chest. “Very important cuddles. Knocking them off the to-do list.”

Aziraphale’s lips frowned, although absolutely nothing else on his face agreed. “I suppose I should be glad to merit an entry on your list, if that’s how it is.”

Crowley kissed his pyjama shirt, right over his heart. “You’re the whole list.” He sat up to kiss the roll of belly where it started to rise from Aziraphale’s chest. “Got two lists. One’s the boring stuff.” Down to where that first roll crested above the navel, all the pretty fat pressing down beneath Crowley’s lips. “Other one’s the important one. The Aziraphale one.”

He rested his hand lightly on Aziraphale’s chest. The shirt had twisted a bit, when Aziraphale had rolled over onto his back; it was pulled up, revealing the bottom half of his belly. Pale perfect skin gleamed at Crowley, covered in the stretch marks which he’d already kissed quite a number of by this point. Not in an organized way yet. That would require lots more research, a much more extensive study of Aziraphale, mapping out every glorious inch of him with eyes and reverent hands. Crucial task, obviously. But Crowley thought he could handle the responsibility.

He looked to Aziraphale now, eyebrows raised. Asking without asking. _Can I go ahead? Can I show you how much I adore all of you?_

Aziraphale was blushing, but only a little. “If it’s important, I suppose you’d... you’d best get to it. Yes?”

“Yeah, it’s critical stuff.” Crowley grinned. “Just — imagine if I didn’t get this done —”

He leaned over again, and this kiss landed on warm bare skin. It was brief, barely more than a peck, before he was moving on to a different spot. And another. Peppering Aziraphale’s naked belly with kisses, laughing, too, when his angel started giggling.

“Oh, you _serpent_,” Aziraphale chuckled, “as if all your clinging wasn’t bad enough —”

“You want snake kisses? I can do snake kisses. Be more like this —”

He stuck his tongue out against Aziraphale’s skin, “Blelelele” not clear at all when mumbled that way. He didn’t get a second chance to try it before Aziraphale started squirming away from him, giggling madly.

“Crowley! —”

His eyes were bright and laughing, though, and when Crowley crawled across the bed and rested his chin on the side of that sweet perfect belly, he got the tiniest nod in response.

Tongue out against the skin again. “Blelele —”

Aziraphale’s laughter pealed out, mixed with Crowley’s. He wriggled back into position so he could hold him, feel them pressed together chest and belly and their legs entwined again, chortling like the idiots they were.

“I can’t believe you _licked_ me, Crowley.” Aziraphale gasped the words out between giggles. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever _heard_ of.”

Crowley pulled him closer and pillowed his head against a shoulder. “Oh, you want ridiculous? Should introduce you to this bookseller I know...”

He grinned as the body in his arms shook with another laugh. Round and beautiful, and relaxed comfortably against him, and all wrapped up around the most amazing creature to ever grace the earth.

* * *

“Hmm.” Her eyes twinkled. “It’s... not the usual kind of custom order I do, honestly. But it’s a lot more interesting than sending two dozen croissants to some business meeting.”

Crowley resisted the urge to slouch. “I can — can order two dozen, if that helps. Just, only the one would have...”

“No, no. The muffin pan only makes six at a time.”

He’d kind of liked the owner of the Clover Cafe, even back when he’d worked here. Helped that she wasn’t in except early in the morning. She’d be in baking before the sun came up, leave not long after his shift started. You couldn’t get too annoyed with a boss who wasn’t there to be annoying.

But she had a sense of humor, and she was going to help him out. Right now she was about his second favorite person in the world.

“I’ll, I’ll buy the whole pan if you want, but you can just sell the others the regular way, I don’t care. It’s just the one that needs to be set aside for us.” His heart idly pummeled a rib. “For him.”

“I’ve never visited his shop, but he’s kind of a Soho cryptid at this point. It’ll be fun to do something for him.” She grinned. “We can maybe talk future business if this goes well. I’m not much for cakes, but maybe you’ll want croissants at the reception.”

_If this goes well I’ll be too dead of happiness for future business_, he didn’t say. “S-sure. The reception.”

It was simple to hash out the details and price (she insisted on only taking payment for the one muffin). Crowley just had to get Aziraphale to the Clover a week from Saturday. Point out that oh, the blueberry muffins were in, wasn’t that unusual for a Saturday, Aziraphale should definitely get one. Whoever was working that day would have been primed to watch for them, and would make sure Aziraphale got a very specific muffin. The one with a ring in it.

(“Oh, no, no, you never want to bake it in,” the owner had said. “The muffins have enough air in them that I’d just cut an opening above the edge of the paper, push it in under the top that way. You know for sure where it ends up then. Also you’re not baking jewelry.”)

Ideally Aziraphale would then take Crowley’s suggestion of oh, it’s such a nice day out, let’s enjoy our snack in the park. They’d sit at their usual bench, Aziraphale would find the ring, and Crowley would drop to one knee right there.

Propose in front of everyone. Declare his feelings to the world: I, Anthony Crowley, love one fat gorgeous angel, and always will.

And Aziraphale would say yes. Hopefully.

It was going to be perfect. One year ago that very day, Aziraphale would have given away a muffin and gotten Crowley’s heart. Now he’d be getting that muffin at last, and promising Crowley his heart in return. And clever Crowley would get so many kisses for making it happen.

He’d just have to get through his gaming session that morning. When they popped by the cafe in the early afternoon, Aziraphale would have no reason to suspect anything unusual at all.

* * *

“Ugh, hang on, guys. My phone is going nuts. Can we, um, assume the Archdevil keeps tagging along with the group for a few?”

“You get lowest initiative if there’s a battle,” Eric said.

“Yeah, sure.” Already getting up, worming his phone out of his tight pocket.

The only notification he had was for a single text conversation, the one with the contact named “❤️❤️❤️pretty angel❤️❤️❤️”. Which meant all that buzzing was from Aziraphale. Probably not a huge deal, although it had felt like a lot of texts...

He scrolled without really looking, back to the last thing he’d sent, then thumbed down through the messages since then.

_I’m feeling a bit pent up, love — going to head out for a walk. Let me know if you get done early, and perhaps we can meet up for lunch._

_Decided to get a coffee while I was out. Look what’s for sale today, even though it isn’t Thursday!_

Crowley’s innards flooded with ice. There was a photo, and it was of the display case at the Clover Cafe, and there were the goddamned blueberry muffins.

Fuck. Of course, if Aziraphale decided he wanted coffee or a snack, the Clover was the closest option. And obviously he liked going there, because that was why he’d gone there in the first place, why they’d ever even met...

Crowley shook his head. It was fine. So Aziraphale would have already had one today. Could probably still tempt him into another later. The proposal didn’t have to be completely wrecked.

_The barista said something about you wanting me to have this one specifically_, read the next message, with a picture of a muffin on their kitchen table upstairs. _I must admit it didn’t really make any sense. Do you know what he meant, dear?_

“Fuck,” Crowley whispered.

One last photo. The slightly deconstructed muffin, out of focus in the background. In the foreground, Aziraphale’s palm, scattered with a few crumbs.

And the ring.

_Do you know anything about this?_

_I don’t really want to call you during your game, but I do need to talk to you._

_Please let me know as soon as you see this._

_I will try calling in five minutes or so, I think._

Everything was ice now. His hands and feet were blocks of it. Everything, the entire proposal, was ruined, because the barista hadn’t understood the request... or because he, Crowley, hadn’t thought that maybe Aziraphale would drop by one of his favorite local businesses for a snack...

And Aziraphale was texting him with no pet names at all, now. No _darling_ or _dearest_ or _love_.

“_Fuck_,” he said again.

His phone buzzed in his hand. A new text. _I am about to call._

_wait_ he dashed out.

_be there in five_

_wait_

Crowley didn’t even pay attention to whatever excuse he gave the rest of the group. Just shoveled his stuff back into his bag, ran for the Bentley, and drove back home at speeds Aziraphale would never approve of.

* * *

The shop was locked. He let himself in, quietly, like he was sneaking in. Which was ridiculous, because all he wanted was Aziraphale — to see his beautiful smiling face, hear his sweet cultured voice as it maybe called his name across the floor in that way that made it sound like the most loving of endearments...

He thought he heard a sound from upstairs. That was where Aziraphale would be, probably. At the kitchen table, staring at Crowley’s folly.

He climbed the stairs with feet that weren’t ice anymore, but lead. His heart, too, cold and sinking past his knees.

“In here,” a voice called. Subdued. Crowley followed it to the kitchen, where Aziraphale sat, looking down at something.

“Um,” Crowley observed. 

Aziraphale fiddled with whatever it was, and there was a glint of gold. 

“Strange sort of experience, breaking open a baked good and finding a ring.”

His voice was quiet. Impossible to get a read on.

“Spose it is?”

“I washed it off,” Aziraphale said, as though answering a concern. “It was a bit covered in crumbs. And I wanted to be sure I wasn’t mistaking it for — something else.”

Crowley leaned against the kitchen doorway as a preferable alternative to falling over. “M-makes sense.”

“It fits.” Aziraphale didn’t look at him, but his cheeks flamed, and his hands twisted faster around the golden something. “Foolish, I suppose, but I — I tried it on, just to see if... and it fits.”

“Yeah?”

Aziraphale looked up at him now. His blush deepened, and his eyes kept jittering away, but he wrested them back again. 

He held the golden something up, and of course it was the ring. Couldn’t be anything but.

“Are these engravings feathers?”

“...angel feathers.” Crowley felt his own face getting warm. “Like to think that they’re angel feathers.”

Aziraphale pressed his other hand to his mouth, eyes going very, very wide.

“Was going to, to take you over there after the game, and buy you the thing, and —” He knocked his head back against the doorframe with a groan. “Fuck. I’m sorry. If you don’t, if I shouldn’t have — I can, can take it back, you don’t have to —”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, and the name came out like it meant _my treasure_. Like it meant _love_. “You were going to propose to me.”

Before Crowley could answer, Aziraphale set the ring down, pushing it to the very edge of the table. Then he sat back and stared at it.

When Crowley stumbled over and grabbed it, Aziraphale stared at him instead.

The fact that he’d tried it on, wanting to know whether it fit. The way he’d said Crowley’s name. The way he was staring now, almost... almost _hopeful_ —

Crowley collapsed onto one knee beside him. 

“Husband,” he choked out. “Want you to — and I want to be yours, I —”

He held the ring out in both hands. Trying to keep calm, and not really succeeding at all. Aziraphale was just so _beautiful_, as his mouth trembled wordlessly. As his eyes filled up with light.

“Will you, angel?” Crowley swallowed a sob. “Don’t have to. You — you’ve already given me so much, but —”

Aziraphale’s hands closed softly over his, silencing him. Then the left one let go to quiver before him, palm-down.

Crowley slid the ring on. Angel feathers for his angel fiance.

“_Crowley_,” Aziraphale whispered, and the reverence in his voice turned Crowley’s heart from lead to molten gold. “My Crowley. Yes. Oh, good heavens, yes.”

A wild little laugh broke from Crowley’s throat. “You sure? Really really sure?” Round hands crept into his again, and he clutched them to his face, laying kisses all over them, palms and knuckles and fingertips. The ring on Aziraphale’s finger was real, cool against his skin, and yet — “You want to marry me? Absolutely certain of that?”

Aziraphale smiled then, and it was a thousand supernovas of joy that hit Crowley, turning him to dust, to less than dust. Constituent atoms. Whatever was left of his consciousness mewled the ghost of a whimper at how tenderly those blue eyes shone. “I want you for my husband, Crowley. I want that very, very much.”

And when Crowley didn’t answer, just looked at him over their joined hands, Aziraphale gave those hands a gentle shake. “I’m _certain_, beloved.”

Crowley laughed again, but this time it was because he didn’t know what else to do with all this golden warmth in his chest. He pulled himself up, pulled both of them to their feet, and kissed Aziraphale’s hand one more time. Just above the engagement ring.

“Angel,” he whispered. “Angel. Angel angel angel God you beautiful _angel_...”

He was yelling it now, grabbing Aziraphale tight enough to get a squeak out of him, pinning his soft arms to his sides in the clumsy embrace. Would’ve picked him up and twirled him if he could. He settled for moving his hands up to dive into Aziraphale’s pale curls, and showering his entire gorgeous fat face with kisses.

Aziraphale was trying to say something, but he was also trying to kiss Crowley now, too, catching his lips for an instant here or there before Crowley _needed_ to be giving his attention to the round cheeks, to the tender forehead, to the sweet perfect flawless turned-up nose.

When he maybe ran out of patience trying to chase Crowley down, Aziraphale reacted by taking his face very firmly in plump hands. He held him still long enough to deliver one soft, yearning, shudderingly-slow kiss.

“Serpent,” he said, and the low husking thrum of his voice nearly unlocked Crowley’s knees. “My handsome temptation of a serpent. How will I ever escape your coils after we’re wed?”

Crowley grinned, smiled, _beamed_ down at him, winding nerveless arms around him, feeling him snuggle close. “Can’t. Never, ever let you go now. You’re mine forever.”

“Oh, yes, please,” Aziraphale murmured against Crowley’s lips. “Forever.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **The final chapter of If Not Now, When will run on Monday, January 13th.** I truly, truly hope that I have crafted an ending which feels satisfying. I kind of want to give all the happiness forever to all of you reading this, tbh, but one little ~2.8k fictional ending will have to suffice in this case.
> 
> Postings will continue on the Monday-Thursday schedule, just as they did before I started INNW -- it will just be other soft romantic asexual fat-positive Good Omens content, instead of this one novel-length thing. Whatever the latest news is on what I'm writing (guess whose brain insisted on starting a completely different new human AU two days ago), it will always be on [my Tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Aziraphale's Shakespeare is misquoted from Henry V, act 4, scene 1: "O God of battles! steel my soldiers' hearts; / Possess them not with fear"
> 
> I tried to find a real-life version of what I thought would be a nice ring for Aziraphale, but nothing was quite what I was envisioning -- too many """Native American""" styled feathers (for white people to pretend like they're very spiritual with, I assume), or ones that were too sharply engraved, or just a lot of things that didn't seem very Aziraphale at all. [This](https://christopherduquet.com/portfolio/gents-wedding-ring-hand-engraving/) is close, though: imagine it in gold, and with the engraving all over instead of just down the center, and more feathery, and you more or less have it. (I could actually go to this place if I wanted, which is an interesting coincidence. Evanston is about as much of a drive from here as O'Hare, and I flew out of there twice this last fall.)
> 
> Finally, credit where due: I [lifted an idea from wonderful commenter Anneke](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20936816/comments/269466100) and used it in this chapter (the bit in response to the grid system).


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How it ends, more or less; or maybe just how it goes on, and never really ends at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter-specific warning notes:** None?
> 
> This is the final chapter of INNW itself. The next chapter here on AO3 is not story, but is instead a list of all the art which has been created for the story. Everyone who has spent their precious, irreplaceable human time on something for anything I have written is a _treasure_ and has a special place in my heart.

Crowley liked Soho okay.

He wasn’t much for architecture, really, so the historic storefronts mostly didn’t do it for him. There was a good restaurant scene, along with bakeries and cafes and a weird little hole-in-the-wall with crepes that were very highly spoken of in certain circles; but it wasn’t like you couldn’t get good food anywhere in central London. He’d gotten more tied into the queer community, but it was in more of a supporting role than anything else.

Crowley liked Soho in general well enough. But the ancient bookshop on the corner, gold letters gleaming above the doorway, held his heart.

“A.Z. FELL AND Co.”, the letters read. He’d grinned at Aziraphale once, and asked “Does this make me ‘AND Co.’?”, and had then had his arms so abruptly full of gorgeous fat angel that he’d gone right over onto his arse. Luckily, he’d been standing close enough to one of the uncomfortable-looking armchairs that he could sort of aim that way, so he didn’t wind up with anything broken. He’d had a lapful of Aziraphale for quite a while afterward. Was awfully woozy from lack of breathing by the time they were done.

That was right after the wedding, though. There’d been a lot of kisses that left them both feeling faint.

* * *

Crowley drifted through a few part-time jobs after being laid off from Red Red, barista-ing and waitering and working a register or three. He liked the structure, the sense of having somewhere to be. Liked feeling useful, especially to the morning coffee hounds desperate for their wake-up juice. There wasn’t really any financial need for it anymore, because Aziraphale’s “small inheritance” was actually plenty to cover the fun stuff for both of them, and their basic expenses were all paid for by the bookshop trust. Everything for the owner and his family, specifying a family in a legal sense. And Crowley was family in a legal sense, now.

Husbands. With the matching rings to prove it.

* * *

“Now, I won’t settle on this, darling.” They’d been lying together on the sofa, Crowley sprawled all over it, and Aziraphale curled up on top of him in defiant protest of there being nowhere else to sit (that being Crowley’s plan all along, of course, and everyone knew it). Aziraphale had been talking wedding arrangements. Wedding. Their wedding. _Theirs_.

“We simply must both have rings, and that’s all there is to it.” He’d touched the one on his finger and smiled. “I don’t need a second one, this is already so lovely, but — we’ll have to get one for you, too.”

Crowley had breathed in deep, let it out in a dreamy sigh. “Don’t need it, though. Know you love me.” The tired yammering voice in his head sneered at him, but on that day, that’d been all it had in it. “Know if you keep choosing me, it isn’t because of some piece of _jewelry_.”

Aziraphale had leaned his head back to rest over Crowley’s heart. “I intend to slide a ring on your finger, beloved, in front of everyone we know. You really aren’t dissuading me on this matter.”

“Gh — okay.” He’d tried to fight the wobbly smile that’d bloomed on his face, but he’d failed, of course. “Could go back to the same shop, I guess. Let you pick out my — my wedding ring.”

“Leave it to me,” Aziraphale had replied mysteriously.

* * *

“Oh, for the love of — ‘s like people’re allergic to not being arseholes!”

Crowley picked up the books left on a display table, obviously not where they were actually supposed to be. There was one left abandoned at the front counter, and another on one of the armchairs, and two on the bloody _floor_ for some reason, because why the hell not. Pretty soon he had an entire stack of things to reshelve.

“‘M gonna kill your customers, angel, that okay?”

He yelled it in no particular direction, not really expecting a response. Already figuring out where the first book was supposed to go. In German, so the foreign editions in the back corner — except, no, it was an antique medical treatise, so actually it went with those...

Midway through the task, he realized he wasn’t alone anymore. The words were on his lips as he looked up, _Hello can I help you_ in a tone of voice that made it clear just how much he hoped the answer was “No”. Except they were knocked away by his smile when he saw who his audience was. “Hey, you. What’re you looking at me like that for?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Aziraphale replied. Beaming at him with the soft light of a million twinkling stars. Faint pink dusted his cheeks, making them look unfairly kissable, given how full Crowley’s hands were at the moment. “Don’t let me stop you, please, dearest.”

“Oh, sure. This is my life, now we’re married. Putting away _your_ books.” Grinning hugely with every word.

He worked his way slowly around the shop, finding the right spot for most of the strays without much trouble. Really, the German thing had been the hardest one. Aziraphale followed him, not saying anything, but watching with that same starry expression.

Crowley shoved the last one back in place, and as soon as he turned around again, he found himself being pushed gently back against the shelves. Aziraphale was an extremely insistent weight against him. Dimpled hands pinning back his chest, round face tilting upwards as he leaned closer, capturing Crowley’s willing lips for a brief shimmering second before letting them go free. Then doing it again. And again.

“Books,” Crowley mumbled. “I get ‘em all — all back right?”

“Exactly right,” Aziraphale said, before kissing him one more time.

* * *

The wedding hadn’t been a huge event. An and Liz had been there, and the Youngs. Crowley’s gaming buddies and three of Aziraphale’s bookseller mates. Some of Aziraphale’s kids, Rosa and Yichen and the rest, who’d hung around the shop long enough to almost become family.

Except not just Aziraphale’s kids anymore. Theirs. Crowley just had to look over at Vega, chatting it up with the others at the reception, if he needed a reminder of that.

Warlock had attended via Skype. Anathema had held the iPad (because Liz was... well, Liz) and had made sure he could see the whole thing.

Aziraphale had slid a ring onto Crowley’s finger. Just a simple gold band, engraved with delicate snake scales. On the inside, where a message or a date might go, was a single angel feather.

Crowley had put Aziraphale’s ring back on him, feathers all around its surface, plus one detail that had been added without him knowing: a tiny patch of scales on the inner curve.

Crowley hadn’t actually seen the rings until it was time for the exchange. When he finally got a look, realized what Aziraphale had done and what would be a secret to everyone but them from now on, he’d started sobbing in front of everyone.

“You may now kiss your husband,” he’d heard, but he couldn’t see a damn thing. He could feel Aziraphale’s hands on his shoulders, though. There’d been the weight of him going up on his toes, and then the touch of soft lips on Crowley’s own.

Crowley had kissed back through his own tears, and felt something in him break and mend and shatter and heal.

Then they’d walked out of the shadow of the old bandstand together. Husbands.

* * *

Crowley greeted the next customer with a smile that actually wasn’t faked. Teresa was the kind of woman who would only be considered “grandmotherly” by extremely unusual families, ones okay with grandma never having left her 80s punk phase. She swore like she needed it to live, ran her own YouTube channel for baking recipes and anticapitalist philosophy, and always cleaned up her table before she left. Crowley liked her immensely.

“The usual?”

“Make it a double today. I’m feeling adventurous.” She handed him the exact change, along with a stamped card. “Which fills this up. Mind keeping it to use on someone who needs it?”

Crowley grinned, accepting the card just as the door rattled open. “Can do that. You’re a real sweetheart, Ter.”

She snorted. “Gotta be kind to each other. Best way to stick it to the bastards.”

That got a laugh out of him as he turned back to the espresso machine. Quick enough task to whip up her latte with its extra shot, milk steamed a little shorter the way she liked it, just a shake of cinnamon... He handed it to her, looking over to check on the new arrival, see whether they were waiting for him yet or still reading the menu board.

The guy who’d come in hadn’t been here before that he knew of. Just a little older than Crowley, dressed like he’d heard of the concept of fashion once and had found it too boring for words. Hair a soft halo around his head, all white-blond curls that had never seen a bottle of bleach in their life. Little bit short (the perfect height to be kissed). Lot bit fat (the perfect size to be held). And smiling, and beautiful, and his.

“Hey there, Mr Fell.” Crowley leaned on the counter. “I’m not actually off for another half-hour.”

“Hello, Mr Fell.” Aziraphale mirrored his pose. “I’m afraid I couldn’t wait anymore.”

Crowley slithered over the edge of the counter, just far enough for them to trade a quick kiss before he dropped back to the floor again. “Well, the woman who takes over for me usually shows up early, so I can maybe cut things a little short. Get you something meanwhile, angel?”

“Oh, my usual beverage order, I should think. And a slice of the coffee cake.”

Crowley made him his coffee, cream and three sugars. Put a slice of cake on a plate.

Looked at Aziraphale, grinning, before adding a second slice.

“Coffee and one cake thing,” he said. “Four pounds even.”

* * *

He’d already gone through the bother of changing his name once; the second time, at least, was easier for the experience.

“You don’t have to take my name, love.” In bed, that conversation had been, a few months before the big day. Aziraphale hadn’t been up to baring himself that night, but his pyjama shirt had been soft and soap-scented beneath Crowley’s head.

“Look,” Crowley had answered. Mumbling it into Aziraphale’s shirt, into his belly under the shirt, as a gentle hand moved through his hair. “‘Anthony’ is... it’s done all right, as a first name, but it was never quite...”

Aziraphale had made a thoughtful sound. “Not quite you?”

“I like ‘Crowley’. I like when I hear people say it.” He’d nuzzled briefly into Aziraphale’s pretty fatness. “I like the way _you_ say it.”

Aziraphale’s voice smiled. “And how do I say it, then?”

“Like you love me.”

That had earned him plump hands on his shoulders, his arms, drawing him up to where Aziraphale lay with his head on the actual pillows like some kind of normal person. Earned him soft pink lips slotting against his own, a sigh rising from Aziraphale’s throat to lodge itself in Crowley’s heart.

“So then I’ll need a new last name. And. Seems to me like it’s important to you, continuing tradition. Right?” He’d found Aziraphale’s hand, and stroked it gently with both his own. The engagement ring had been warm against his skin. “Shop’s always run by Fells. So. There you go.”

Aziraphale had made a very strange sound, then, and had grabbed Crowley very tight. Had pressed his face against Crowley’s shoulder. “‘Crowley Fell’.” His voice shook, and it was muffled, but still understandable. “Oh, my only. My darling, treasured jewel.”

Crowley had held him a while, and then had leaned close to his ear. “Blelele,” he’d said softly, his little serpent-tongue noise, and that had gotten a watery laugh. They’d talked a bit longer, about more mundane things. Fallen asleep soon afterward.

* * *

It was still raining. Crowley glared out the window for a minute, but there didn’t seem to be any effect. Rain kept coming down, not hard, but steady.

“Oh,” said a voice which he’d recognize always, anywhere, cultured and fussy and music in his heart. “Do you think we should cancel our plans?”

“Up to you. Depends on how much trouble you’re willing to go to for crepes.”

There was a sweet little _hmm_ noise, and when Aziraphale’s voice sounded again, it was right behind him. “Rather a lot of trouble, actually. I was looking forward to them.”

Crowley glanced back over his shoulder, taking in the sight of both Aziraphale (pretty blond hair, round smiling face, forever that ridiculous bow tie — husband, his _husband_, would he ever get used to that?), as well as the large white umbrella which he wielded. “Course you were. Don’t know why I ask. You and crepes, angel, I swear.”

“Shall we, then?”

Crowley grinned. Sure. Whatever Aziraphale wanted for lunch, he’d be up for it. Always would be.

Aziraphale stepped up next to him at the shop doorway, opening the umbrella out over the pavement. “Do zip your jacket up, love. I won’t have you catching your death.”

Crowley rolled his eyes, but did as asked. He took the opportunity to kiss Aziraphale on the cheek when he was done, though. 

They walked outside together, beneath the umbrella. Aziraphale’s arm was wrapped comfortably about Crowley’s waist, hand on his side, snugged just above the curve of his hip. Crowley had one arm around Aziraphale’s wide back, the other hand cupped against his perfectly soft belly. Even through their jackets Crowley could feel the warmth of him. He could smell his cologne. Sort of papery and spicy and floral.

“Choose you again today, pretty angel,” he murmured as they walked.

“And I choose to love you, my handsome serpent.” Aziraphale’s arm tightened around him for a moment. “It’s my honor just to be given that choice.”

Crowley stroked his hand over the broad curve of waistcoat and smiled. “Dunno that it’s anything about honor. Think we were just both lucky.”

Lips brushed against his jaw, and when he shivered, Aziraphale drew him even closer.

Crowley looked down at his wedding ring, shining gold on top of Aziraphale’s belly. He was very, very glad Aziraphale had insisted on getting it. Such a little thing, but it was important, too. More important than he’d realized when he’d first thought about it.

Like a blueberry muffin, maybe. Stupid little thing, meaningless until it wasn’t. Until it was suddenly the most important muffin in the world. Until it passed into the hands of a beautiful angel, and then back out again, and left Crowley’s heart behind, cradled more safely in those hands than he could ever have dreamed.

He stopped Aziraphale on the pavement, turning them both to face each other. Held his round body close and kissed him. Warm mouth opening against his, tender and giving, breathing magic into him as he drew up all the devotion in his heart, pressing it into Aziraphale’s lips like this, like this, like _this_.

When the umbrella started to slip in Aziraphale’s hand, Crowley reached up and grabbed it too. Their hands held it up together, shielding them both from the rain.

“_Crowley_,” Aziraphale said at last, breathless and pink-cheeked. “If we don’t stop, I believe I’ll _faint_.”

Crowley took a deep breath, two, three. “Yeah. Yeah, we should. Should probably wait till we’re. Back indoors.” He grinned, and then it kept growing until he was smiling, big enough for his face to hurt, but he couldn’t stop it. Wouldn’t if he could.

Aziraphale’s eyes sparkled up at him. “My Crowley,” he said, the name coming out like something precious. “Are you... happy, Crowley? With our life?”

Crowley breathed in deep again. Scars on his chest, and on his heart, too, and there always would be. A voice that still muttered insults at him from inside his head. Soft eyes behind his sunglasses, and soft curves to his body that wouldn’t have been there, probably, if things had been different. If he’d been born different.

But a soft angel, too, perfect in his arms. A life of people he might never have met if he’d been anyone else. Fuck, would a different Crowley ever have been Warlock’s nanny? Not likely.

The queer kids, the ones who came to the shop when they were scared. The ones he and Aziraphale would always help any way they could. It was this version of him who watched over them. Not some imaginary ideal version. Him.

Anthony Crowley wasn’t here anymore, and neither was she, the other one, the ghost who smiled at him proudly from the mirror sometimes. Crowley Fell was the one to hear the question. Crowley Fell looked down, looked into the crinkled eyes of his gorgeous fat angel husband, and his heart swelled with the answer, with the simple beautiful truth of it.

“So goddamn happy,” he said. Laughed at the wiggle that caused, and pecked a kiss against Aziraphale’s double chin. “Now let’s get you those crepes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish I could give a happy forever to everyone reading this. We'll have to settle for these two not-quite-effable walnuts getting theirs.
> 
> I didn't really intend to write an entire novel when I started INNW, and yet here we are -- the first words went down on virtual paper on September 22, 2019, and the last ones on January 2, 2020 (with one extra scene shoehorned in a couple days later). And the result is nearly 90,000 words. That is so many words. I hope they were mostly good ones.
> 
> If you would like more soft romantic asexual fat-positive Good Omens fanfiction, then you can still keep coming back here to read it on Mondays and Thursdays. Next up is a very gentle canonverse ficlet on Thursday, January 16th. Whatever the latest news is on what I'm writing or planning to post, it will always be on [my Tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Please, my beautiful perfect fat people, and trans people, and ace people (and anyone else who could use a home, a refuge, in a particular imaginary bookshop) -- please remember that, while this story is fictional, your being important and worthy and wonderful and lovely remains utter fact. You can tell it's true because ineffablefool said it, and he wouldn't lie to you.
> 
> This fic started out being named after one song, but I'd actually like to leave off with a link to another, which I never heard of until lovely commenter Bjurnberg mentioned it back on chapter 18: [Starlight, by Casey Breves](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JoUUBTCF5_A). I think it expresses very well what I've tried to give Crowley and Aziraphale. It's what I would have for myself, give to everyone who wants it, if I could.
> 
> Thank you so very, very much for coming along with me on this. I love you all.


	29. Appendix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a list of links to all the art which has been created for this story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is so much fanart for INNW that I ran out of characters to put all the links in the AO3 notes.
> 
> That’s amazing, and I love every single person who is a part of that reality.
> 
> I’m going to try to maintain a listing, here, which I can link to from Tumblr as appropriate. **Please note that if I list a chapter for a particular link, I recommend reading that chapter BEFORE VIEWING THE ART.** Spoilers, and whatnot. And I've linked to my own reblogs for a couple of reasons -- A) you can see all the excited yelling I do in the reblog tags, but also B) none of the links will break if OP changes their username. You can always get to the original blog, if applicable, from my reblog. If I've got any links wrong or chapters attributed wrong or anything, please let me know.
> 
> There's a whole pile of fanart and commission work from April/May 2020, which were part of a huge birthday present to me from the very lovely [Depressedstressedlemonzest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Depressedstressedlemonzest/). She also writes ace-friendly fat-positive Good Omens fanfic, the kind which doesn't let you forget that hey, guess what, Aziraphale is fat and beautiful and Crowley loves and cherishes him as the fat person he is. Basically what I'm generally aiming for. Please take a look if that sounds enjoyable.

**Art which other beautiful humans have done for INNW:**

  * November 24, 2019: [non-chapter-specific, by squeegeelicious@tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/189282541139/squeegeelicious-a-walk-to-the-ritz-for)
  * January 22, 2020: [non-chapter-specific, by thesylversmyth@tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/190403991139/i-should-be-sleeping-but-instead-im-posting-good)
  * January 30, 2020: [non-chapter-specific, by thesylversmyth@tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/190547361324/oh-oh-ive-perished-now-okay-cool)
  * May 27, 2020: [non-chapter-specific](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24477043), by [Ilikepears@AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilikepears/)
  * September 20, 2020: [non-chapter-specific, by thegirlwiththepuffhat@tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/629816794791788544/i-i-love-this-so-much-thank-you)

  * May 28, 2020: [chapter 1, by depressedstressedlemonzest@tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/619820089320095744/art-for-ineffablefool-for-innw-and-his)
  * May 28, 2020: [chapter 2, by depressedstressedlemonzest@tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/619825770261512192/art-for-ineffablefool-for-his-birthday-and-innw)
  * May 28, 2020: [chapter 3, by depressedstressedlemonzest@tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/619821976999084032/art-for-ineffablefool-for-his-birthday-and)
  * October 19, 2019: [chapter 4, by stars-sky-see@tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/188442038109/look-what-stars-sky-see-did-i-complained)
  * May 28, 2020: [chapter 4, by depressedstressedlemonzest@tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/619823878443876352/fanart-for-ineffablefool-for-his-birthday-and)
  * May 28, 2020: [chapter 5, by depressedstressedlemonzest@tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/622128080671178752/happy-birthday-ineffablefool-for-you-and)
  * May 28, 2020: [chapter 6, by depressedstressedlemonzest@tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/622128216292884481/birthday-art-for-ineffablefool-and-innw-okay-so)
  * May 28, 2020: [chapter 7, by depressedstressedlemonzest@tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/619829529983287296/art-for-ineffablefool-for-his-birthday-and-innw)
  * April 3, 2020: [chapter 8, by the-purple-rook@tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/619406763334254592/depressedstressedlemonzest-the-purple-rook)
  * May 27, 2020: [chapter 9, by penbwl@tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/619408619271766016/happy-birthday-ineffablefool-d-i-hope-you)
  * May 28, 2020: [chapter 9, by depressedstressedlemonzeest@tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/622128422723960833/birthday-art-for-ineffablefool-and-innw)
  * May 27, 2020: [chapter 10, by yamikakyuu@tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/619450164175945731/cute-little-chibi-omens-brought-to-life-by)
  * May 28, 2020: [chapter 10, by depressedstressedlemonzest@tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/622129285046648833/birthday-art-for-ineffablefool-and-innw-per-the)
  * November 30, 2019: [chapter 12, by squeegeelicious@tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/189402610969/squeegeelicious-do-not-remove-description)
  * May 27, 2020: [chapter 12, by flameraven@tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/619455719113211905/flameraven-crowley-stumbled-across-the-rug)
  * May 27, 2020: [chapter 12, by yamikakyuu@tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/619414303747997697/cute-little-chibi-omens-brought-to-life-by)
  * May 28, 2020: [chapter 14, by depressedstressedlemonzest@tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/619827648106037248/for-ineffablefool-for-his-birthday-and-innw-per)
  * May 28, 2020: [chapter 14, by depressedstressedlemonzest@tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/619833276728803328/per-the-list-of-all-birthday-gift-arts-this-is)
  * May 1, 2020: [chapter 15, by jojisoja@tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/619406506705764352/comission-comission-done-by-the-amazing-jojisoja)
  * May 27, 2020: [chapter 16, by formyfriendssanity-goodomens@tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/622130324446527488/formyfriendssanity-goodomens-piece-i-did)
  * May 27, 2020: [chapter 16, by melododdley@tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/622131170438709250/gorgeous-art-commissioned-by-melododdley-for)
  * February 7, 2020: [chapter 17, by an anonymous but wonderful human (pencil version)](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/190726300769/a-very-lovely-human-who-has-asked-for-anonymity)
  * February 24, 2020: [chapter 17 again, same anonymous but wonderful human (digital version)](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/611094264995282944/the-same-very-lovely-human-who-asked-for-anonymity)
  * December 11, 2019: [chapter 18, by c4th33-wolf@tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/189623443804/i-im-sorry-what-you-created-art-with-your)
  * May 27, 2020: [chapter 18, by depressedstressedlemonzest@tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/622132195665002496/birthday-art-for-ineffablefool-and-innw-the)
  * May 28, 2020: [chapter 19, by depressedstressedlemonzest@tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/622133068448301056/birthday-art-for-ineffablefool-and-innw-per-the)
  * May 28, 2020: [chapter 19, by depressedstressedlemonzest@tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/622134100441120768/happy-birthday-ineffablefool-this-is-for-you-and)
  * May 27, 2020: [chapter 20, by melododdley@tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/619453962443276288/gorgeous-art-commissioned-by-melododdley-for)
  * May 28, 2020: [chapter 20, by depressedstressedlemonzest@tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/622175616443236352/per-the-list-of-all-birthday-gift-arts-this-is)
  * May 28, 2020: [chapter 20, by depressedstressedlemonzest@tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/622177481092382720/birthday-art-for-ineffablefool-and-innw-okay-i)
  * January 19, 2020: [chapter 21 or later, by hopeinthedark1901@tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/190353294434/hopeinthedark1901-crowley-doesnt-like-using-his)
  * May 27, 2020: [chapter 21, by jojisoja@tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/619410509451722753/comission-for-depressedstressedlemonzest)
  * May 27, 2020: [chapter 21, by kbeekill@tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/619457703442563072/and-the-beautiful-wringing-referenced-direct-from)
  * May 28, 2020: [chapter 22, by depressedstressedlemonzest@tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/619831434291576833/birthday-art-for-ineffablefool-and-innw-this-is)
  * April 2, 2020: [chapter 23, by ineffablelovebirds@tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/619406763270291456/depressedstressedlemonzest)
  * May 27, 2020: [chapter 25, by melododdley@tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/622179366741360641/gorgeous-art-commissioned-by-melododdley-for)
  * April 4, 2020: [chapter 26, by jojisoja@tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/619406506698391552/depressedstressedlemonzest-jojisoja-3rd)
  * May 27, 2020: [chapter 26, by melododdley@tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/622181269185380353/per-the-list-of-all-birthday-gift-arts-this-is)
  * May 28, 2020: [chapter 27, by sani-86@tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/622183205887492096/sani-86-sani-86-i-can-finally-post-this-one)
  * January 25, 2020: [chapter 28, by wizzygold@tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/190466726104/i-woke-up-to-the-results-of-the-precious-time-and)
  * February 19, 2020: [chapter 28, by apocalypsenah@tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/190922483204/apocalypsenah-a-little-thing-i-painted-of-a-scene)
  * May 27, 2020: [chapter 28, by melododdley@tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/619452025341640704/gorgeous-art-commissioned-by-melododdley-for)

  
**Art which other beautiful humans have done for follow-up fics in the INNWverse:**

  * May 27, 2020: [One Garden, With Serpent, by apocalypsenah@tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/619835208462729216/apocalypsenah-a-birthday-gift-for-the-lovely)
  * May 28, 2020: [But I Linger On, Dear, by depressedstressedlemonzest@tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/622185021082583040/birthday-art-for-ineffablefool-and-innw)

  
**Fanfic which other beautiful humans have written of the INNWverse:**

  * May 28, 2020: [The Misters Fell](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24426973), by [Sodium_Azide](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sodium_Azide/pseuds/Sodium_Azide)

  
**Art which I have done:**

  * [chapter 1](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/188228379374/eh-this-is-fine-lil-bit-of-spot-color-and)
  * [chapter 4](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/188405907844/crowley-took-the-mug-his-hands-rested-over)
  * [chapter 13](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/189147623434/aziraphale-sat-to-crowleys-right-again-last)
  * [chapter 22](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/190047763749/a-dented-key-shone-dully-in-the-shade-of-the)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you were thinking of leaving a comment, please know that I treasure every single one, whether it's a single emoticon, a copy-pasted line, a keysmash, an entire novel of feelings, or whatever. (Even after a story's been online for a while and already has comments! I like to know that my babies are still loved!) I've literally cried a few times reading some of the lovely things people have said in comments, and they really are fuel for my soft little heart -- but never, ever required, so please don't feel pressured. Just know that if you're ever questioning whether it would bother or annoy me for you to comment or otherwise reach out, _no oh goodness no it will never bother me it will absolutely do the opposite of that_.
> 
> If you want to say hi on Tumblr, I'm [ineffablefool](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com) there, too. The last sentence of the previous paragraph applies here as well. 
> 
> I would never actively request art from anyone I wasn't paying, but if you, the human reading this, were to decide it was worth your time to create fanart based on any of my stories, I would be incredibly honored ([and would love to enshrine it forever on my Tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/tagged/ineffablefool-gets-fanart-from-lovely-people))! I have only one requirement: please don't draw Aziraphale any thinner than the size I headcanon (I need both my soft cuddly daydreams, and my positive fat representation). Here are some examples of what that sort of minimum body size/shape might look like: ([speremint 1](https://speremint.tumblr.com/post/186342035100/i-did-this-instead-of-my-hw-ya-girl-is-gonna)) ([speremint 2 from her Reversed Omens AU](https://speremint.tumblr.com/post/186574829700/finally-finally-done-making-these-refs-my)) ([dotstronaut](https://dotstronaut.tumblr.com/post/186740069618/no-really-i-dont-think-you-all-understand-how)) Otherwise, the characters can look however you like!
> 
> (If you say something nice about one of my stories and I recognize you as an artist who does commissions, there is a chance I will ask to give you an amount of money of your choosing to draw your favorite bit of the story you complimented. Just a little warning.) 
> 
> I hope you're having a fantastic day.


End file.
